


Born to Strange Sights

by AddioKira



Series: Eliza Moon [2]
Category: Magical Diary
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-07-14 15:58:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 43
Words: 168,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7178651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AddioKira/pseuds/AddioKira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eliza Moon has returned to Iris Academy for her sophomore year; a year of new friends, new teachers - and new problems. Her husband is now living in the UK, and plans to return only for their divorce. But when Eliza is implicated in a devastating attack upon Iris Academy, Hieronymous Grabiner may be the only one who can save her. A sequel to The Fall of the House of Grabiner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

On the first day of school, I open my eyes to an index card stuck to the ceiling with one word printed on it in block capital letters: "OXFORD."

I lay staring at it in the growing, greenish light of dawn that wafts through the curtains of the room I share with Ellen and Virginia in Horse Hall. It's a new room, different from the one we'd shared last year, and we'd been surprised when we'd arrived yesterday upon discovering that two of the beds are bunked one atop the other. Ellen and I had quickly agreed to let Virginia have the free bed - she rolls and talks in her sleep - and Ellen had asked for the lower bunk, leaving the top to me.

I had initially thought that it would be fun to sleep in a top bunk, but the novelty wore off after about ten minutes of tossing and turning in it. I've always had trouble sleeping in unfamiliar spaces, and although I'd spent an entire year at Iris Academy already, this new room proved to be no exception. I'd lain awake for most of the night, listening to my roommates breathe (well, in Virginia's case, snore), and going over and over what I've started to call my "plan of attack."

I start it over again now, watching as the light slowly begins to brighten, illuminating the card I'd stuck to my ceiling yesterday so that it would be the first thing I see when I go to bed, and the first thing I see when I wake up.

 _First I'll talk to Professor Potsdam_ , I think. And I'll ask about applications. _Like when I have to apply, and what I have to say. And whether there's a test._

Thinking about a potential admissions test to Oxford University gives me an uncomfortable sensation, as though I'm prodding a sore tooth. I'd managed to perform well in all my exams at Iris Academy, but then, Iris Academy doesn't have a grading system - and isn't the magical college attached to one of the most prestigious universities in the world.

_Well never mind. Maybe it'll just be essays. Professor Potsdam will know, anyway, she might even have had students from Iris get into Oxford before; she'll know what I'll have to do. And then I'll ask her about the grades I'll need to have to get in. I wonder if it's okay that Iris doesn't have grades?_

I shift, tossing to my left side, bunching my pillow under my chin. This gets uncomfortable after a minute so I roll to my back again to stare at the card.

It's not alone up there on the ceiling. Surrounding the card are magazine pictures of trees, of mountains, a lizard, a crab. I reach my hand up, and the ceiling is just near enough that I can graze my fingernail along my favorite picture, one that shows a forest of trees lining a craggy hillside.

 _They really are shaped like giant umbrellas_ , I think. The trees - dragon's blood trees - just serve as another reminder of why I want to go to college in England, even though they're half a world away from London, on an island in the Indian Ocean.

It had been over the summer, just a little less than a month ago, when I'd spent a week and a half at a country house in Northumberland, on the English-Scottish border, and my husband had told me he'd always wanted to visit the island of Socotra.

 _Future ex-husband_ , I remind myself grimly, and have to keep from heaving a sigh for fear of waking my roommates. It had been a strange week in England, but then it's been a strange marriage, one only entered into to keep my soul from being devoured by a manus who was beholden to my husband's - Hieronymous Grabiner's - family. I'd spent nearly a full semester at school being married to one of my professors, but the oddest incident I'd encountered had been that week during the summer. I'd been summoned to England by my headmistress, Professor Potsdam, ostensibly for the purposes of visiting my father-in-law, Aloysius Grabiner - the 16th Viscount Montague. As it turned out, Lord Montague had been planning on killing Hieronymous and taking his body to live another lifetime, and using me to create a child for him to repeat the cycle when it was old enough.

Between my deciding to offer my body up in exchange for Hieronymous's, and Professor Potsdam's entrance at the very last moment, we'd managed to have Lord Montague's spell backfire on him, leaving nothing more than an unpleasant stain on one wall. But Hieronymous had been furious that Professor Potsdam had intended to have me sacrifice myself all along, and quit his job at Iris Academy. He'd stayed in England to take over his father's titles and estate, and although he said I might stay in London to go to school there, in the end we'd both agreed that it would be better for me to go back to America, and Iris Academy.

But I'd promised him, and myself, that it wouldn't be forever, and that I'd go back to England to study magical history someday - not just for him, but for the friend I'd made over my week in his house, Mrs. Craft. She was an octogenarian history teacher who'd been murdered by the late Lord Montague so that he could use her latent magic to take over his son's' body. But most of all, I'd made the promise to myself, feeling that I'd finally figured out just what I want to do with my magical abilities.

I'd felt confident then that I could get into Saint Amphibalus's - Oxford's magical college - but I don't feel quite so confident now that I'm faced with having to take the concrete steps I'll need to find out what it takes to apply. I still have three years of magical high school before I go to college. And even sooner than that - this January, in fact - I'm getting divorced.

The thought makes my stomach squidge, and I flop over onto my right side, facing the wall. I ought to be grateful to be granted an easy divorce. It's not an enviable position, being forced into marriage at sixteen, even if it's only for a year and a day, and even if it's with a husband who has repeatedly refused to take advantage of me.

 _He even had my permission that once, and he still said no, you're too young_ , I think. It was honorable, gentlemanly, non-pervy of him, but I still feel disappointed about it. _Maybe I'm a little bit in love with him?_ The thought doesn't provide me with much comfort. I've never been in love - I don't think, anyway - and I have no idea how to tell when "in love" might actually happen to someone. Even with all the romantic books I've read - _Pride and Prejudice_ , _Rebecca_ , _The Age of Innocence_ , _Wuthering Heights_ , and especially _Jane Eyre_ , my favorite, love always seems to just happen to people. There's no litmus test to determine whether the feelings you feel for someone are love, a crush, or somewhere in between.

I thought I'd been in love once, when I was in the eighth grade. There was a boy in my class with startling green-yellow eyes, the only person in our grade who'd read more books than me. He'd even read Herman Hesse, a fact I'd found extremely alluring. But he'd never treated me as more than an acquaintance, despite all my attempts to draw him into more intimate conversation. At the end of the year he'd gone off to a magnet high school, while I'd been shuttled to the regular public school. I hadn't bothered to apply to the magnet, because by that time I'd known that I'd be going to magic school once I'd turned sixteen. And after a month of the boy being out of my sights from day to day, I'd stopped thinking about him so much - and then at all. And I'd given up my attempts to read _Steppenwolf_ without so much as a pang of guilt.

But this time, it feels different. This time, my husband and I have voluntarily put an ocean between us, and I haven't stopped thinking about him for what feels like every minute of every hour of every day.

 _I wonder how he's doing_. There are five hours' time difference - I think - between him in London and me in Vermont. I'd gotten only one letter, the week before I'd come back to school, that said he'd settled into his house in London for the time being, and to please use that address when writing. I'd dashed off a short letter in response, saying I'd be in school starting September fifth. I haven't gotten another response, but then, I'll probably have to wait until Saturday when it's my job to deliver the mail at five in the morning. It's a long time to wait. I'm eager to know how Hieronymous is settling into his new life as a viscount, and the only aristocratic magical citizen in the United Kingdom, or so I've been led to understand. He's rejected a Parliamentary position, which he intimated might give him some trouble with his country's magical council, considering he would have been the magical community's only representative in the House of Lords.

I hope they - the council, whatever that might be - leave him alone, though the question remains, leave him alone to do what? He'd mentioned to me that he'd been considering setting up a magical school in Newcastle, but I'm sure he hasn't even had the time to start on the kind of work that would be required for such an immense project. And part of me has the rather nagging sensation that, despite the fact that Hieronymous had spent years at Iris Academy as a teacher, he isn't exactly suited to the work. It isn't that he's bad at the job, I reflect, it's only that teaching hadn't seemed to make him very happy. However, I'm hard pressed to think of any sort of career - even that of lounging about and living off of his estate - that would result in Hieronymous being completely content.

 _I wonder what would happen if I taught there too?_ I wonder, and not for the first time. It's a pleasant little fantasy - that Hieronymous and I don't get divorced after all, but remain married while I pursue my degree at Oxford. He opens up his school, and I go up to Newcastle after getting my degree, and we teach there together, and _maybe_ ….

But the fantasy dissolves in my head almost as soon as it's begun. There isn't any way that I can think of to convince Hieronymous that we ought to stay married while I'm still in high school, and anyway, it'll be years and years yet before I earn my college degree. No matter how many permutations I consider, the entire scenario is entirely unrealistic. I just have to hope that wherever our future paths lead us, it will be together somehow, even if I can't say just how.

My eyes stray back to my index card. Oxford.

_First I'll talk to Professor Potsdam, I think. And I'll ask about applications. Like when I have to apply, and what I have to say._

And that's when Ellen's alarm clock goes off.

I feel her shift in the bed under me - the bunk bed is a little rickety - and smack her hand down on the clock. But she isn't hitting snooze - she sits up, stretches, and stands.

I immediately fast forward to the middle of my "plan of attack" - _look at the smartest students in school, and act like them_. The two smartest students in school, in my opinion, are my roommate Ellen, and my student council-mate Minnie. So, despite the fact that I'm desperately tired, I get up and climb down the slatted side of the bunk beds.

"Morning," Ellen says, yawning. "You don't have to get up, I just wanted an early start today."

"Oh, yeah. Me too," I say, not entirely convincingly. "What have you got today?"

"Blue," she says. "You?"

"Same." I'd eagerly searched our available schedules yesterday to determine whether our courses had been expanded this year, but found that we had the same five choices per day, between red, blue, green, black and white magic. No history, no literature, and definitely no science. So I'd dithered over the five courses, but in the end, picked the course that had turned out to become my favorite last year.

 _And besides_ , I think, _I might as well get used to_ him _not teaching as fast as I can_.

Moving quietly, so as not to wake Virginia, Ellen and I gather our things and make our way to the bathroom down the hall. It's early enough that it's not crowded with fellow students getting ready for the day. Only one girl - Pastel, Minnie Cochran's roommate - is standing before a mirror drying her hair with a breeze spell, twisting the pale pink strands around her fingers so they curl. The tips of her diaphanous wings ripple slightly in the gusts of air.

"Morning," says Ellen to Pastel, who murmurs something noncommittal back. But when Pastel sees me walking by in the mirror, she becomes much more lively.

"E _li_ za!" she says, not taking her eyes off the mirror, but looking at my reflection. "I heard your husband's not teaching this year - is that right?"

"Yeah," I say, not bothering to wish her a good morning, and trying to hurry past to the shower. But Pastel isn't letting me escape so easily. She finally steps away from the mirror and into my path, blocking it.

"Shouldn't you be over in Butterfly?" I ask. It's a little odd to be seeing Pastel in the Horse Hall bathroom.

"Too crowded," she sniffs. " _Freshmen_ took all the mirrors. I figured none of the Horse Hall girls'd be up yet - no _offense_ , but looking nice for the first day of school isn't exactly a Horse Hall priority?"

"None taken," I say, in a chilly tone of voice that implies the opposite, but that Pastel completely ignores.

"So what happened with Grabby?" Pastel asks. "Are you divorced or what?"

"Nothing _happened_ , just his dad died, so he had to move back to England," I say, feeding Pastel the same line I'd fed to Ellen and Virginia when we'd arrived at school yesterday.

Once again, I'd arrived at Iris later than fellow roommates, largely due to the fact that Ellen had apparently ridden up with the Dansons, with whom she'd been staying for the month of August as a break from her summer studying at Iris. Both Ellen and Virginia had greeted me enthusiastically, with stories about the fun Ellen had had in Massachusetts. I'd listened, forcing myself to keep a smile, but I couldn't help being a little jealous - after all, I hadn't been invited, and it's not exactly easy to listen to tales of your two best friends having fun without you.

When Ellen had wound down from recounting berry picking expeditions, fishing trips and picnics in the local park, I'd said "sounds like fun."

Ellen must have noticed the slightly strained tone in my voice, because she immediately colored. "We should have a picnic, the three of us - maybe in the courtyard, before it gets cold! What do you think, Virginia?"

Virginia had turned from where she'd been unpacking a full extra suitcase of snacks, and gave me an unreadable look. "Sure," she'd said, "long as Eliza's not going to spend all her weekends with Grabby again this year."

"O-oh," I'd stuttered in surprise. "Well - I mean - he's not actually - he's not teaching this year."

"What?" Ellen had said, eyes wide, and Virginia had dropped a tube of cookies to stare at me in shock.

"His dad died," I'd explained sheepishly, "so he moved back to England to, like, take care of stuff."

"What stuff?" Ellen had asked, but she was drowned out by Virginia giving a whoop.

"No more Grabby!" Virginia exclaimed. "Sweet!" I had pretended to laugh at Virginia's glee, and had pretended not to have heard Ellen's question. After that - to my relief - the conversation had moved on.

Through my sleepless night, I'd thought about confiding to Ellen and Virginia the events of my strange week over the summer, but in the end I had decided that the entire series of events had been too personal for me to relate to any of my fellow students. And besides, it's possible that even if I had just told my roommates, one of them might have let the story slip - not out of malice, but from a momentary lapse. That's how the story of my marriage got out in the first place, though the culprit had been Minnie rather than Ellen or Virginia. Still, the consequences of that slip had been so dire for me that I now think twice - no, more than twice, multiple times - about telling anyone something I want kept secret from the school at large. And considering that Pastel had been an integral part of the secret getting out, there's no way I'm telling her anything more than the most basic facts.

"His dad dying doesn't sound like nothing," says Pastel, but her interest is waning since the answer to her question wasn't some choice piece of gossip. Her eyes stray back to the mirror.

I shrug. "That's all I know about it," I lie.

"Well, I hope the new teacher's at least good looking," says Pastel, stepping back to finish her hair, and leaving me to dash to the shower stall next to the one in which Ellen has entered and drawn the curtain. By the time I finish washing and drying myself off, Pastel is gone, but a queue of girls has formed for the showers. I hurry back to my room to finish getting ready.

Once I'm finished and dressed in my uniform, and tucking my new _Intermediate Blue Magic_ textbook into my bag, Ellen has already parked herself at her desk, and is reviewing a section of her own textbook.

"I read the first ten chapters over the summer," she says, frowning, "I hope that's enough for whoever's taking over."

Just great - I'm already off to a bad start, not having read even a single chapter of our textbook yet. "It might be Professor Potsdam," I suggest. Professor Potsdam is a pretty lenient teacher, who always allows her students to ask for help and re-do assignments - except for exams. Professor Grabiner, on the other hand, had been extremely strict and had no patience for excuses about who had or hadn't read what part of a given assignment.

"Maybe," says Ellen, "but she teaches sophomore white, green and black too - it seems like a lot of work to have to take over all five classes at once for both years."

"I guess," I agree. It's no good speculating about it, anyway. Whatever new teacher we have, we'll have to get used to his, her or es teaching style soon enough. I wait for Ellen to pack her things.

"Should we wake up Virginia?" I ask, glancing at our roommate, who's still sound asleep in bed.

"I think she's taking gym today," says Ellen. Figures - gym is Virginia's favorite class, particularly since it isn't strictly scheduled, allowing for a chance to sleep in. "Now that William's graduated," Ellen says, "she said she gets to slack off a little this year."

"Okay," I say, resigned. "I guess we should go."

Ellen and I make our way first to the cafeteria, where I'm too nervous to eat anything. I suck down a cup of coffee, and then head down the hall to the row of classrooms. We enter the one that had once been Professor Grabiner's. It's been stripped of his crammed bookshelf, and the desk is empty of his inkpot collection. It all looks depressingly clean, devoid of my husband's prickly personality. A number of students have already taken their places, so Ellen and I are forced to sit in the front of the room. As we pass the second row, Minnie Cochran - sitting next to Pastel - gives me a quick wave. I wave back, and give her a small smile. I need to track her down later, to talk to her about our fundraising plan for next week's freshman initiation.

Once Ellen and I settle into our desks, Ellen takes out her book and begins reviewing chapters, so I do the same. I start at the beginning of the book, but get a little lost before I reach the end of the first paragraph.

 _Blue magic_ , it says, _the magic of transformation and change, of transmogrification and transmutation. In this Intermediate text, you will continue your instruction in the art of transforming physical objects, and transmogrifying spells of other colors in order to adjust their effect. Special care should be taken to ensure that each nuance of every particular spell is..._

Uch. Boring. I hope our actual instruction turns out to be a little more interesting than this. I glance up at the clock on the wall - it's a minute past nine, when class is supposed to begin. No instructor has entered the classroom yet, and I begin to wonder whether we're going to have a class after all. I turn back to my book.

_...properly categorized and accounted for, leaving nothing to chance. The delicate symbiosis of each particular spell has its own..._

"Good morning, students," says a low voice from the back or the room, and all of us turn in our desks to view the speaker. I start, and then stare, only realizing after what feels like a full minute that my mouth is hanging open. But then, I'm not the only one - all of the other students are also gawking at the figure who's just entered the room.

It's a man - or at least, a person who gives the appearance of being a man - who is almost, but not quite, exactly the opposite of Hieronymous Grabiner.

He's as tall as Professor Grabiner is - possibly taller. And he's thin. But there, the similarities end. Professor Grabiner is not exactly the sort of person that most people would consider handsome, what with his shaggy black hair, hawk nose, and hooded eyes. This man is not just handsome, he's - well, he's beautiful. He has dark, bronze skin and a head of silvery-white hair that might or might not be due to age. It's impossible to tell how old he is, given the serene expression on his unlined, even features - again, almost the opposite of the constantly irritated expression that Professor Grabiner had displayed in his time at Iris. As the man approaches the front of the room I can see that his eyes are a startlingly deep shade of indigo.

As he passes the rows of students, everyone's head swivels to follow him to the front of the room. Most of the girls - and the guys - are looking very dreamy, and Pastel is practically salivating onto her desk. The new instructor takes his place before the blackboard, right in front of Ellen and me.

"I am Professor Terrec," he says, "and I will be instructing you in the ways of blue magic today." He doesn't have an accent exactly, but there's something about the way he pronounces the words that doesn't quite seem American - just a slight lilt that I can't quite place. "I understand you are the sophomore class?" He lifts the phrase at the end, but it isn't exactly a question. "Then, please, who can tell me how the magic of transformation is used to effect travel between physical spaces, a process colloquially known as teleportation?"

The air next to me is displaced as Ellen shoots her hand into the hair. I look back and see Minnie has raised her hand too.

"Yes?" Professor Terrec says, taking a small book from one pocket and leafing through it. "Miss... Middleton?"

"Blue magic is not only used to shift and transform physical objects," says Ellen, "but planes of space, allowing physical objects to travel from one plane to another almost instantaneously, so long as those planes in space are relatively close together. And on a molecular level -"

"On a what?" asks Professor Terrec, very quietly, but it's enough to send Ellen stammering. And no wonder - Ellen's answer was sounding very, well, _science-y_.

"Uh - I just meant -" starts Ellen, but Professor Terrec waves her off.

"Your answer was correct, Miss Middleton, thank you. Now who can tell me why blue magic is most effective when paired with black magic as compared to other colors of magic?"

This is an easy one, so although it's against my instinct, I raise my hand. _Look at the smartest kids in school, and act like them_ , I remind myself. I hold my breath, waiting for Professor Terrec to choose.

His indigo eyes fall on me, then, and he says "Miss..." He flips through his book, then pauses, his serene expression falling into a frown. "Lady Montague?" he says. He glances back up to me, distaste creeping onto his features.

I start, the answer I was about to give stopping in my throat, choking me. Lady Montague is technically my title now that my husband is a viscount, but I hadn't thought that anyone at school would even think to call me by it. There's only one person who knows, and who'd be flip enough to insert it in the school register - Professor Potsdam. I grit my teeth as someone behind me snickers.

"It's a mistake," I say, my voice cracking. "I'm just Eliza. Moon." It's a struggle not to drop my eyes, but with a supreme effort, I keep them raised.

"This is not your title?" Professor Terrec asks, a bit of fuzziness in the "r" of "your." Another snicker, louder this time. What do I say? Yes, it's my title, and I don't want to lie, but I don't want anyone calling me Lady Montague either.

"Just Eliza Moon, please," is what I finally say, and my voice drops to a whisper at the end of it. I can't keep my eyes up any longer either; I stare at my open book instead.

"Then," says Professor Terrec, "Miss..." He pauses, and I freeze. "Cochran?"

Minnie rattles off the answer to Professor Terrec's earlier question, and with consternation, I hear her say, basically, what I would have, if I'd had the chance to answer.

"Because both blue and black magic are the most effective types of magic to use on physical objects," says Minnie, "their compatibility is enhanced."

She says it more elegantly than I would have, but I'm still furious and dismayed that I hadn't been given the chance to answer. _I would have gotten it right_ , I think, over and over as class continues. _I would have gotten it right if he hadn't - if he'd let me-_

I barely hear another word of whatever lecture Professor Terrec gives on blue magic, so consumed am I with anger and embarrassment. When he releases class for lunch, I'm the first to shove my book into my bag and stalk up the aisle to the door. But I pause once, unable to help myself, and look back, to see Professor Terrec staring after me, looking thoughtful and - unless I'm imagining it - still with an expression of distaste.

 _Great_ , I think, _my first day of school and already the new professor hates me_. And then another thought, unbidden, but no less upsetting for that - _I'd better not end up married to_ him _, too_.


	2. Chapter 2

"Wait up!" puffs Ellen, behind me. I'm not too much taller than she is, but I am faster, and for a moment I consider pretending I don't hear her and charging down the hall. In the end, that strikes me as being too mean. So I stop, and let her catch up before continuing toward the cafeteria.

"What was that?" Ellen asks as we round a hallway corner.

"Just a mistake," I say, definitely not in the mood to explain my name change in the school roster.

"It's just," Ellen says, "I thought you'd at least be - you know - Mrs. Grabiner, so why'd he call you 'Lady?'"

As we enter the cafeteria, Ellen turns her eyes up at me, wide and pensive - and, I think, a little worried.

_I don't want to do this_ , I think, but I don't want to blow off Ellen, either.

"Okay, well," I start, as we pick up trays and enter the lunch line, "you know how I said Hier- Professor Grabiner's dad died over the summer?"

"Yeah," responds Ellen, serving herself some stewed swiss chard.

"Well, turns out his dad was... kind of a big deal? Over there, I mean." I keep my voice as low as I can, and shuffle down the line slowly so no one can overhear.

But the next thing I know, someone slaps their hand on my shoulder and says "what's a big deal?"

I tense, but immediately relax upon recognizing the voice - it's just Virginia, who's bypassed the vegetable part of the line and is serving herself a double helping of lasagna.

"Her father-in-law," says Ellen, _sotto voce_.

"I thought he was dead or something," says Virginia.

"Well yeah," I say. "That's kind of the point. Now Professor Grabiner's the big deal, I guess."

"So he's a Lord? A noble or something?" asks Ellen, taking a dessert cup - a disappointing one today, green Jell-o with something that definitely isn't whipped cream on top. Still, dessert is dessert, so I take one too.

"He said 'peer,' but I don't really know if there's a difference," I reply.

"I think it means the title is hereditary," says Ellen, stepping toward a table where Donald, Logan and Luke have just set down their trays.

"We are _not_ sitting with jerkface," says Virginia. "Don't you remember what he did to me last lunch at home?"

Ellen sighs. "It was just a prank," she says.

"It wasn't _just_ a prank," Virginia retorts. She turns to me. "I asked mom to make my favorite dessert - dirt cake, you know, where you make the cake out of ground up Oreos so it looks like dirt, and layer it with whipped cream and gummy worms and stuff?"

The concept doesn't sound at all appetizing to me, but I just nod and let Virginia continue.

"Well she made it, but snot stallion over there decided it would be hi _lar_ ious to switch it with a cake made from _actual_ dirt." Virginia scowls, but when I glance at Ellen, I see that Ellen is going red with the effort to keep from laughing.

"She ate a really big bite," Ellen manages to squeak.

"That's terrible!" I say, but it's an effort to keep the corners of my mouth from turning up.

Virginia rolls her eyes at me, but she's starting to grin, too. "Just for that, you hafta tell us _all_ about your husband, Lord Fancypants. C'mon." She turns to a table at which Minnie, Jacob and Pastel are eating.

"Guys, if we're gonna talk about this, can we at least sit over there?" I ask, jerking my head to an empty table in the corner. Well, it's nearly empty - Suki Sato is sitting at one end of it, deconstructing her lasagna, eating the filling, and laying the noodles in a crisscrossing pattern across her plate. She seems to have embroidered a large dragon on the front of her school uniform, and I wonder how long it'll be until Professor Potsdam pounces on her and makes her change it back. It'll be too bad - the dragon is actually pretty neat-looking, with shimmering green and gold scales.

"Yeah," agrees Ellen. "Come on, Virginia." We sit at the opposite end of the table from Suki.

"So what's his title, then?" asks Ellen, once we've settled.

"Seventeenth Viscount Montague," I rattle.

"What's a viscount?" asks Virginia.

"Between an earl and a baron. I think," answers Ellen. "Is he in _Debrett's_?"

I have no idea what that is, so I just stare at Ellen.

"It's a list of the peers in England," she explains. "We could look him up. I _wish_ we had internet here," she huffs, stabbing a piece of chard with her fork. "I bet there's a list online somewhere. Virginia, do you know if they list magical peers?"

"Who cares?" asks Virginia. "What I wanna know is, can he set me up with Prince Harry?"

I screw up my face at her. "You like Prince Harry?"

"Not really," she responds, "but William's already taken, so Harry's my last chance to become a princess, right?"

"I didn't think you were the princess type," I say. "That seems more like Pastel's thing."

"You don't have to be a girly girl to want to be a princess," retorts Virginia. "Princesses get servants to pick up after them, _and_ they get to go on adventures. Prince Harry gets to fly _helicopters_! I bet he'd teach me how!"

"Don't count your helicopters before they land," says Ellen. "Anyway, I hear Prince Harry prefers blondes." She pats her buttery-blonde hair in a smug way, and Virginia sticks her tongue - dyed green from the Jell-o, which she'd eaten first - out at Ellen.

"Stop fighting - I don't think he knows Prince Harry," I say, grinning.

"So what's he going to do in England? Not Prince Harry - Professor Grabiner," says Ellen. "Is he going to be in Parliament? Or on the council?"

"Not Parliament - I don't know about the council though. I mean, what is the council, really?" I know that the council is a magical authority, but I don't know much else about it. The only person who's ever mentioned the council to me in any kind of detail was Hieronymous, and even then, he didn't elaborate on what exactly the council does.

"You don't know?" asks Virginia, incredulous.

"They're magical legislators," interrupts Ellen. "They set the rules for the magical community to follow, and they punish those who break them."

"So they're the legislature and judiciary?" I ask. "What happened to checks and balances?"

"Well, since we're such a small subset of the population, it's not too formal," said Ellen. "They're not even elected, really, just as long as every set region has a representative. And it's not just the US, every country has some kind of council, though they don't all operate the same way."

"You really didn't know that?" asks Virginia.

I shrug. "I knew they set rules, but I haven't heard much more than that. How did you know about it, Ellen?"

"I read a book about it over the summer, but I had to get it by inter-library loan - there's nothing on the subject at the school library," she responds.

"See Jacob?" asks Virginia, pointing to his table. "One of his dads just got appointed to the council. _Very_ big deal. And he's been letting us know about it pretty much constantly, the whole summer." Suddenly, she grins. "He'll be _sick_ when I tell him that your husband's-"

"Don't you dare!" I say. "Anyway, I don't know if he's going to join the UK's council. I'll ask him, maybe." I probably won't - Hieronymous isn't big on interrogations.

"Are you going to see him at all?" asks Ellen.

"Not 'til January," I reply. "And that's when we're getting divorced, so it won't really matter anyway." The thought of my pending divorce is depressing - and not just because it's kind of ignominious to be a divorcée before the age of eighteen. Although, I remind myself, he had asked me to dinner afterwards, and that's something to look forward to - even if he'd adamantly insisted that it was _not_ a date.

"Good riddance," says Virginia. "No offense, but the whole thing's a little creepy." Virginia hadn't ever approved of my crush on Hieronymous, husband or no. So I hadn't told her - or Ellen - about the fact that we'd kissed while skipping the May Day ball.

"Did you see him over the summer?" asks Ellen.

_Now why would she ask that?_ I wonder. I glance from her to Virginia. There's no way I could bring myself to admit that I had seen him in England - that would raise too many questions that I don't want to answer. So instead, I lie.

"Nah. He was here, most of it, and then he had to go to England. He did send me some letters, though."

" _Love_ letters?" asks Virginia with a cackle. I glare at her, but soon start laughing myself.

"You gonna eat that?" asks Virginia, pointing at my Jell-o cup. The not-whipped cream topping is looking melty and limp, and not at all tempting.

I push the dessert toward her. "Take it."

"You didn't eat any vegetables," chides Ellen.

"I don't like chard," says Virginia.

"You still need to eat greens," replies Ellen.

"Not if I don't like them!"

"You liked the lasagna fine," says Ellen.

"So?" says Virginia. "I like lasagna."

"Well it was _spinach_ lasagna," says Ellen with a smirk.

"Blech!" says Virginia, and I laugh.

"So you only like greens when you don't know they're there?" I ask.

"I guess," says Virginia, but then she perks up. "That means I _did_ eat my vegetables, so there!"

"It doesn't count if they're smothered in cheese and tomato sauce!" protests Ellen, but Virginia has already crammed half the Jell-o into her mouth, ending any further argument.

The bell rings then, so we all stand to empty our trays.

"Back to class," I sigh. "Can we sit in the back this time?"

"It wasn't that bad," says Ellen. "Maybe Professor Terrec was just surprised by your title."

"So then why didn't he let me answer the question?" I ask. "He just swept right over me like I was some kind of bug."

"Who knows," says Ellen, noncommittally.

"Well _I_ know I'm going to see Professor Potsdam to get my name changed in the school roster," I grumble. "I'm not having everyone going around calling me-"

"See you in class, _Lady Montague_ ," says Raven Darkstar from Snake Hall as she sweeps by with one of her drama club friends. They both snicker in a not-very-kind way.

I sputter in indignation. "See?!" I say, turning back to Ellen and Virginia, who are frowning.

"Well, okay, we can sit in the back," says Ellen, "but only if I can hear him well enough to take decent notes."

"Oh, yeah, that reminds me - can I see your notes from this morning? I wasn't really paying attention."

Ellen sighs and rolls her eyes, but she doesn't say no. We make our way to the classroom, leaving Virginia to head to the gym.

I'd worried that we'd be too late to get a seat at the back, but on entering the classroom I see that there's been a general migration towards the front. Some of the students snicker when I enter, but most are already looking rapturous at the prospect of the lovely Professor Terrec's entrance. I'm grateful for his sudden appearance at the front of the class, which eclipses any further thought of mocking my title, instead inspiring a classful of dreamy stares and sighs.

Ellen furiously takes notes on Professor Terrec's lecture, and I race to catch up. By the time class is finished for the afternoon, I'm exhausted with the effort. If this is what it takes to get into Oxford, I can only hope that I can keep up for the next three years.

Ellen and I return to our room to drop off our things, and I immediately leave again to seek out Professor Potsdam.

I find her in her office in the faculty building, and when her secretary shows me in, she rises from her desk with a huge grin.

"Lady Montague!" she squeals. "I'm so glad to see you - I was so pleased when I got your letter saying you'd be coming back. And how are you settling? How is dear Hieronymous? Still angry with me? He won't answer my letters - I hope he isn't burning them."

I have no idea how to respond to Professor Potsdam's questions about my husband - though I wouldn't put it past him to burn her letters. She doesn't give me time to answer as she ushers me into a chair, still prattling.

"I understand you met Yves - Professor Terrec - today, I do hope you like him, he comes very highly recommended, and _such_ a dear to come in on such short notice."

"Actually, that was what I wanted to talk to you about, Professor," I interrupt, knowing that if I don't do it now, she won't stop talking until I leave.

"What's that, lamb? Oh - would you like some tea? I was just about to have some. I'm afraid I became quite addicted during our little trip." She doesn't wait for me to answer, but conjures a full tea service onto her desk.

"About Professor Terrec," I say, a little hesitant. All the fury I'd felt toward Professor Potsdam this morning seems to have dissolved - it's hard to stay angry at someone who's so _nice_ to you all the time. I take the proffered cup and let her pour some tea into it. "He called me 'Lady Montague' this morning."

"Yes?" says Professor Potsdam over her cup.

"Well, that's it, really," I say, a little embarrassed. "I don't want to be called Lady Montague, I just want to be Eliza Moon."

"But that's your title, dear," says Professor Potsdam, patiently, and I feel myself flush. After all, what can I say - 'but the other kids are making fun of me'? How childish.

"B-but-" I stammer, my mind racing to think of something that won't make me sound like a five-year-old. "it was just a little distracting," I finish, lamely. "And Professor Terrec didn't seem to like it."

"Is that right?" asks Professor Potsdam, and her eyes bore into me in a way that makes me uncomfortable. I'm still not entirely sure about Professor Potsdam - although she puts on an aggressively cheerful demeanor, and has saved me from nasty creatures set on killing me twice now, she's also the one who put me in the path of those nasty creatures in the first place. It was all for the sake of saving my husband from his murderous father, for which I should be grateful - but all the same, it feels an awful lot like being used.

Still, I remind myself, now that my husband is safe from his father, there's no reason for her to put me in danger any more. And part of the reason I'd decided to come back was to learn from Professor Potsdam so I can make up my own mind about her. So for now, I might as well play the game her way.

"Yes, that's right," I say, trying to put some steel into my voice. "So I'd appreciate it if you'd make the change."

"Oh, well, if you feel you must," says Professor Potsdam, all cheer and verve once again. I have to wonder if I've just won, or if I've just given something away. Oh well - at least she's agreed to the name change. And if I'm ahead by that much, I might as well ask her something else.

"I wanted to ask you another question," I blurt before I can change my mind.

"Certainly dear, what is it?" Professor Potsdam asks with a blinding, pink-lipsticked smile.

"How do you get into Oxford?" I ask, so fast that I slur my words into each other, then have to pause. "I - I mean how do _I_ get in? To Saint Amphibalus's?"

Professor Potsdam stares at me as though I'd just asked her how to get to the moon without supplemental oxygen. My heart sinks into my stomach. "Is there a test?"

"Well dear, not exactly," says Professor Potsdam. "Oxford does have an extremely rigorous admissions requirement, however. The magical college relies on individual recommendations for students, and there is an interview process... applicants liken it to defending a doctoral thesis."

I don't really know what that means, but it doesn't sound good. "Okay," I say, "So will you recommend me, maybe?" I can't help the uncertainty that creeps into my voice at this last word, but part of me is a little sickened, hearing it. What happened to the confidence I'd felt when I'd told Hieronymous that I'd definitely get in?

"Of course, dear!" says Professor Potsdam, and she gives me another huge grin. My mood lifts, but only briefly, because then she says "but it isn't that simple."

"What do you mean?" I ask. She gives me a sympathetic smile.

"The recommendation has to be unanimous - from every teacher in the student's school," she says, and my stomach drops. Every teacher in the school means Professor Terrec - who's already decided that I'm not worth enough to even allow me to answer a question in class.

"Oh," is all I can manage.

"Yes, recommendations need to be submitted by the middle of your junior year," Professor Potsdam says, sipping at her teacup with relish. "But I'm sure you'll have no trouble, gosling!"

Her cheeriness begins to have the opposite effect on me - I feel more despondent than ever. But there's no use in arguing - or moping. If that's what it takes to get into Oxford, that's what I'm going to do. _I can do it_ , I tell myself. But not all of me believes it - not all the way.

"Okay," I say, "thanks, Professor." And I get up, leaving my untouched cup of tea on Professor Potsdam's desk.

"I'll see you in class tomorrow, kit!" says Professor Potsdam with a wave. She's right - I have white magic tomorrow, and if I want to be sure of Professor Potsdam's Oxford recommendation, I'd better pay attention.


	3. Chapter 3

As I'm walking down the corridor back to Horse Hall, I begin to make adjustments to my "plan of attack." It's a good thing there isn't an exam, I decide, but the interview process sounds almost as bad. I wonder what kind of questions they ask - and then realize that it's something I should have asked Professor Potsdam before I'd walked out of her office. I start cursing my own stupidity, but then stop. I can ask Professor Potsdam later - and after all, it isn't as though the interview is tomorrow. I have to figure out the unanimous teacher recommendations first, and that might be the hardest part.

I'm trying to think of ways to get Professor Terrec to like me as I cross the courtyard on my way to the student halls. So far, I can't think of anything short of trying to suck up to him in class, the thought of which immediately fills me with repugnance. For a moment, I pause, wondering why I should have such a strong reaction.

 _Well I just don't_ like _him_ , I decide, a little self-righteously. Immediately a more rebellious section of my brain pipes up - _but then I didn't like Professor Grabiner when I first met him either_ , and I tell me to shut up.

I enter the nearest door of the student residence hall, deciding to walk through Butterfly on my way to Horse. But I haven't gone more than a few feet before I hear a familiar voice, loud and strident, wafting from a nearby open doorway.

"Just _gorgeous_ , isn't he? My mother knows him, _actually_ , and he's such an improvement over Professor Grab-"

The voice stops as soon as I poke my head into the door frame from which it had sounded. I see Pastel sitting on one of the beds, holding court over a gaggle of younger-looking girls who I don't recognize - freshmen, I guess - who are sitting on the floor in a fawning semi-circle. Also in the room are a few faces I do recognize - Minnie, sitting in her desk chair, Raven from Snake Hall, Jacob, Suki, Ellen and Virginia.

"Oh _hi_ , Eliza," says Pastel in a way-too-innocent voice.

"Hey," I say, hoping I sound casual. But I can't resist asking "who's an improvement?"

"Ohhh," says Pastel, "I was just saying how nice Professor Terrec is - my mother knows him, you know?"

"No, I didn't," I say. "You must know him really well then, right?"

Pastel's smile drops, and everyone else turns to look at me. For a moment, no one says anything - long enough for me to wonder why my remark should provoke such pointed silence.

"Professor Terrec seems really nice," says Minnie, a little too loudly. For some reason, this irritates me even more than Pastel's obvious taunt had done. "He's something all right," I snap. "Is he even human? What is he, anyway?"

This question stops the room cold. Raven sucks in her breath, and even Virginia glares at me and hisses "Eliza!"

"What?" I ask Virginia, and when she doesn't answer, I look to the rest of the girls who are staring at me, saucer-eyed. "What?" I repeat, louder.

I hear Pastel clear her throat, and when I turn to her, her smile is back. It's smug - no, it's more than smug, it's _triumphant_.

"That's a little rude, don't you think?" she asks. I look to the others, baffled, but the expressions on their faces show that yes, it's a lot rude, they _do_ think. I can feel myself redden, but it's no good trying to protest that I hadn't meant to be offensive.

"And I don't see why it matters to you, anyway," continues Pastel. "I mean," she says, looking around at the other girls, "you can't screw _all_ the teachers, Eliza."

At that, both Jacob and Raven give huge huffs of laughter, and several of the freshmen start to giggle - although it's clear that they're not exactly sure what it is they're laughing at. Minnie is looking away, Virginia looks embarrassed and Ellen looks stricken, but neither of them says anything. Suki looks out of the window at something that isn't there.

I stand for a moment in the doorway, feeling as though I'd been pinned there, eviscerated and wriggling. I look back at Pastel; her smile is hard and forced, but still somehow triumphant. She stares back at me, as though daring me to try to protest. I don't - I'm too stunned to do anything but turn away, and walk rapidly down the hall. My face feels blazing and my eyes prickle, but I won't be caught crying in the middle of the hallway - I _won't_.

Halfway to Horse Hall, I realize that I don't want to go back to my room. Ellen and Virginia might come back, and I don't want to face anyone who'd been present when Pastel had said - well - when she'd said what she'd said. So I whirl around, mid-stride to walk the opposite way - and nearly smack straight into Minnie, who I hadn't noticed following me down the hall.

Minnie gives a small squeak and jumps back, and we stand there in the hallway, staring at each other for what feels like a full minute. Finally, she drops her eyes and says "um..."

"What?" I snap, making her jump back slightly.

"Oh - it's - I just-" she stammers. I ought to feel bad for making Minnie so jumpy, but I don't - in fact, after being paralyzed by Pastel's comment earlier, I feel a nasty sort of pleasure in doing the same to someone else.

"So," Minnie says, in an overtly friendly way, "how was your summer?"

"Uh," I say, "fine. You?"

"Great!" she says, with more nervousness than enthusiasm. I frown - Minnie hasn't followed me out of her room just to ask me about my summer.

"I heard Professor Grabiner's not coming back this year?" Minnie says, with a cringing sort of smile. "Where's he - I mean, is he okay?"

"He's fine," I say, then go silent. I'm not angry with Minnie for disclosing the secret of my marriage - not any more, anyway - but I'm certainly not going to trust her with any further information about my husband.

After some hemming and hawing, Minnie finally gets out what she wants to say. "I just had a question about the fundraiser for this weekend? For the initiation picnic? You said you'd take care of figuring out what to sell, so..." she trails off, looking sheepish, and suddenly I feel awful for snapping at her.

"Oh, yeah," I say, remembering. Minnie had been e-mailing me all summer with ideas for the fundraiser, but we hadn't ever settled on anything definite. When I'd gotten back from England, I'd had an idea, and so told Minnie I'd bring the materials to school. The initiation fundraiser takes place the first Saturday of school, while most of the freshman are exploring the local mall - and takes advantage of the first allowance received by the rest of the students on Saturday morning.

"You know how we did snack packs last year for the exams?" I continue. "Well, I thought we could do, like, study packs - notepads, pens, pencils, that sort of thing."

Minnie breaks into a smile, her prior nervousness apparently forgotten. "That's a great idea!" she says. "And you've got all that stuff already?"

"Yup," I say. And I do - thanks to my summer job working at a stationer's office. The office had branched out into small gifts during my summer there, which meant they'd put a large overstock of discontinued stationery in storage to make room for their new products. The Weis had been happy to donate the leftover stationery to Iris, asking only that I include their website information so students could order replacements if they wanted to. I'd agreed - it would have been too difficult to explain why Iris Academy didn't have any internet connection. At any rate, I'd brought three boxes of a motley assortment of discontinued notepapers, envelopes, pens and pencils to sell over the weekend. "We're all set. I've sorted the stuff into packs, so we just have to set the booth up on Saturday morning."

"Great!" says Minnie, with some obvious relief, and I have to wonder whether she'd thought I'd flake out on her. "Jacob will help," she continues, flushing a little bit. That brings me down a bit - considering how Jacob had laughed when Pastel had made her comment. Still, it seems that Minnie with Jacob is a lot more reliable than she'd been last year, when she'd been seeing Kyo from Wolf Hall.

"Oh, that'd be great," I reply, but I'm not able to fake enough enthusiasm to keep Minnie from going a bit redder.

"Listen," she says, "Sorry about what Pastel said earlier - Jacob's sorry too."

Somehow I doubt that, and I don't reply.

"Don't mind Pastel too much, okay?" Minnie continues. "She gets a little sensitive about... stuff."

I have no idea what that means, so I just say "oh," and look at the floor.

Minnie seems unwilling to explain further; she just says "well, anyway, we can set up Saturday morning after you finish the mail. In the courtyard - the juniors and seniors'll have booths set up too. There's a warding spell to keep the freshmen away so they don't know what's going on, but most of them are going to be at the mall anyway."

"Okay," I say, my tone desultory.

"So," says Minnie, tapping a toe on the hallway carpet, "do you want to go to dinner?"

"Oh, nah," I say. "I'm not that hungry." There's no way I'm sitting with Minnie and Jacob at dinner, and it's true that I don't feel very hungry just now.

Minnie looks like she's about to say something else, but then stops. "Okay," she says, "see you." And she walks off down the hall. I'm left to plod toward the library by myself.

It's empty, since everyone has probably already headed to the cafeteria for dinner. It feels a little like the time I'd gotten stuck in the library during the pancake dinner last spring - except now there isn't anyone to walk in on me and keep me company, even in a curt, brittle way. I glance over at the rack of magazines, but it doesn't seem as though they've been changed since last year. And anyway, I remind myself, I should be studying, not reading magazines.

So instead, I cross over to the shelf that has the history books. This is the first time I've taken a good look at them since I'd glanced at them on first entering the library last year. They all seem like ancient textbooks - frayed at the corners, and hopelessly out of date. Still, history is history, so I take what looks like a first year book and plop it on a table to start reading.

 _Magic_ , it reads, _predates recorded history. Yet it has been the driving force behind human development and civilization since the beginning of time_.

Uch. _Boring_. My eyes seem to slide across the words down the page, so I start over again, trying to think the words to myself in Mrs. Craft's voice.

 _The emergence of the ancient practice of magic is closely tied with the first interactions of humans with the creatures of the Otherworld. It is thought that the first creatures to pass from the Otherworld into this plane brought with them the esoteric secrets that allowed humans to begin their own foray into the magical arts_.

It doesn't work. Mrs. Craft could tell a story from history and make it sound as though it were the next episode of a television program that you'd been anticipating for the last month. This book is so dry it makes me thirsty. But then, there's no Mrs. Craft to liven up the history classes at Oxford - if I can manage to even get in, that is.

 _And how am I supposed to get into Oxford_ , I think, _if I can't even get through the first chapter of one history book?_

That, finally, is the last straw, and before I can even realize what I'm doing, I burst into tears. The entire horrible first day of school seems to wash over me like a wave, and I bend over my book, unable to hold myself upright any longer. And the only thing I can think of is - oddly - not about how I'll never get into Oxford, not the fact that my newest magic professor hates me, or that Professor Potsdam is being obtuse about my title, or even Pastel's nasty comment. All I can think of, over and over again is - _I miss you - I miss you - I miss you_.

It seems to take ages and no time at all for the wave to recede, and for me to cry myself out, sitting there in the corner of the empty library and dripping onto my out of date history textbook. But when I finally stop hitching and sniffling and rub my eyes one final time, I look up to see that the library isn't empty after all. I freeze.

Standing by the magazine rack is a boy who I vaguely recognize as being in my class, and he seems startled at being caught staring at me - nearly as startled as I feel at finding myself being stared at. It's too late for him to pretend not to have seen me, so instead he gives me a crooked smile and pushes a sheaf of black hair back from his forehead.

"Sad book?" he asks.

I wipe my nose on the back of my hand. "Oh. Yeah. Devastating."

The boy considers me for a bit, and I look back. He's not very tall, and has a slim build. The most unique thing about him is his hair, which is an inky blue-black and falls over his face when he slouches, which is what he is currently doing. I try to think of when I've ever talked to him before - I have seen him around, in my classes and during school assemblies but he'd always just been part of the crowd. But as I'm trying to think of whether I might have spoken to him, or found out his name, I realize that the symbol on his uniform belt is a toad.

No wonder I don't recognize him. I'd never had much occasion to speak to anyone from Toad Hall except for Manuel Arias. Though I know a few girls in Snake Hall, most notably Raven and Suki, the only person besides Manuel that I'd met from Toad Hall was Balthasar, Virginia's senior during last year's initiation week. Still, I can't quite connect this boy's face with any of the names on the envelopes and packages I'd delivered to Toad Hall over the past year.

After a minute of both of us just staring at each other and not saying anything, the boy seems to make a decision and walks toward the table at which I'm sitting. He takes the chair opposite me, turns it around and straddles it, resting his arms on the top and his chin on his arms.

"Missed you at dinner," he says.

I'm so taken aback by this, that I can't think of anything to say, and just keep staring at him.

The boy looks down, picking at one of his fingernails. "Everyone was talking about you at lunch."

"Oh..." I say, still unsure how to respond.

He peers back up at me from under his thick, straight eyebrows. "I'm Ahmed, by the way."

"Eliza," I say slowly.

"Yeah, I know who you are," the boy says, which is fair when I think about it - I am class treasurer after all, and that means posters, stickers, getting in front of the class and making speeches. That combined with the story of my marriage means that pretty much everyone in class knows who I am, whether I know them or not. But he has the advantage over me. I'm reasonably familiar with everyone's names, having spent the last year delivering mail to their rooms. However, I can't remember delivering any mail to Toad Hall for anyone named Ahmed.

Then sudden recognition strikes. "Oh!" I say. I have gotten packages for an Ahmed al-Sharif. But then, something's still odd.

"Wait-" I say, "aren't you in Falcon Hall?" He's certainly pretty enough to be in Falcon Hall. Now that he's close up, I can see he has a set of extremely long and sooty eyelashes, and his skin is remarkably clear for adolescence. I'm a little jealous.

Ahmed snorts. "Was."

"Oh," I say back, still unsure what this might mean. "So did you switch out?"

"Kind of," he says, back to picking at his fingernails again. "When you didn't show up for dinner I guess people got bored talking about you, so they started talking about me."

I don't have any idea what he means by this, so I just stay silent.

"So, I thought I'd come in here for some quiet, but there you were, with your sad book. So I figured this is where the losers hang out, right?'

"Yeah, I guess," I say, but I can't help the corners of my mouth twitching up a little bit.

"I thought so," he says. "You're the first person all day who didn't ask first thing _why_ I switched to Toad Hall."

"Well," I say, "you're the first person all day who didn't ask me where's my husband."

"Yep," he says. "Definitely loser headquarters. With our..." he pokes at my book, "devastating history textbooks and Tiger Beats from 1986."

I actually crack a smile at this.

"What does 'eldritch' even mean, anyway?" Ahmed continues.

"It's... a Lovecraft word, I think," I say. "So it either means weird, or tentacle-y."

"So... I have a bright future ahead of me in hentai?" says Ahmed. "My parents will be so proud."

This time, I can't help but laugh, and Ahmed breaks into a smile. I realize that this is what he was going for, and part of me is a little irked at being manipulated - but the other part is happy that someone saw me crying and cared enough to try to cheer me up. Ahmed stacks his fists on the table, and leans over the back of his chair to rest his chin on them. When he does, I notice his ring - silver, with a round blue stone that seems to give off a soft, glowing light from within its depths. He's wearing it on the third finger of his right hand, which makes me feel nostalgic for the ring I'd worn while I'd been in England - a red one, rather than blue, but with the same mysterious glow.

"That's Otherworld, right?" I ask, pointing. Ahmed looks puzzled, but then pleased, and he unfolds his hand to look at the ring.

"I don't know," he says. "You're wildseed too though, right? How can you tell?"

"Well it's all glowy, isn't it?" I say.

"Yeah, kind of," he says.

"I used to have one," I admit, and at this moment, I sort of wished I'd kept it - even if I knew then, and still know now that it wasn't right for me to do. "So, are you married too?"

Ahmed doesn't answer at first, but smiles in a vague sort of way, keeping his eyes on his ring.

"No," he says, "but I think my boyfriend might propose soon."

The way he says it throws me slightly. There's no doubt or hesitation in his voice - he sounds... well, he sounds awfully sure of himself. Awfully grown up.

"Wow," is all I can say. "Well, congratulations in advance."

"Thanks," he says. "Congratulations in retrospect."

And he seems sincere about it - not aggressive, like Professor Potsdam, or reluctant, like Minnie, or calculating like Lord Montague. He doesn't even seem doubtful, creeped out, or eager for gossip, like the rest of my classmates. He just sounds genuinely happy for me, that I'm married, even if it's to a teacher nearly twice my age. And it's weird, but in a way, refreshing.

"Thanks," I say, and I mean it.

I don't know what else to say, but even if I had, I'm interrupted by a cluster of freshmen entering the library.

"Well, I guess this meeting of the Iris Academy Losers Club is adjourned," says Ahmed, standing. "See you in class or something."

"Yeah-" I start, but before I can say anything else, he's gone. The freshmen start clustering around the magazine rack, giggling, so I decide to go as well, stuffing my useless history textbook into the shelf where it had once stood before walking back to my room.

It's still empty, thank goodness, so I'm able to take a notepad and my _Intermediate Blue Magic_ textbook into my upper bunk to work on the essay due next week - a description of the ways in which blue magic affects each other type of magic, with examples. I've finished with red magic and am halfway through black when Ellen and Virginia walk in together.

"-just don't think she would-" Virginia's saying, until they both glance up and see me perched on my bunk. The three of us stare at each other for a minute.

Part of me - a small, mean part that seems to be surfacing a good deal today, considers giving them the cold shoulder and going back to my essay. But the rest of me is sick of being angry at everyone. "Hi," I say, in what I hope is a friendly, forgiving sort of tone.

"Umm... are you okay?" asks Ellen.

"Oh, yeah, fine," I say. "Just doing my blue essay."

Both Ellen and Virginia glance at each other, but neither of them speaks.

None of us say anything much to each other for the rest of the evening, but we all go through the motions of finishing our homework, getting ready, and going to bed.

Before Virginia hits the lights, I have time to stare just one last time of the assortment on my ceiling - the forest, the lizard, the crab, the flowers, the card that reads "Oxford."

 _I miss you_ , I think, and then the lights go out.


	4. Chapter 4

The rest of the week goes by without much incident. I get through the rest of my classes - white, black, green, red - without attracting attention to myself, but not drawing any distinction either. I even manage to take notes straight through Professor Terrec's red magic class on Friday, but I make sure to sit in the back, and I don't raise my hand. Ellen, for some reason, sits in the front without me, but I figure it's just what she wants to do. Still, I can't bring myself to join her.

I'm so keyed up from anticipating some kind of disaster that I feel a sort of serene happiness when my alarm goes off at five in the morning on Saturday. Just the fact that it's the weekend is enough to give me an incredible sense of relief, even if I do have to wake at dawn.

I slip from my top bunk, trying my best not to make any noise, and dash to the bathroom to wash up before heading to the mail office. The halls are so empty and silent that it's easy to pretend I'm the only one in school, a feeling that's both blissful and lonely.

Once I'm in the office, however, I'm dismayed at the huge pile of envelopes and packages. Not only do I have to distribute the five dollar allowance to each of the sophomore students, but I have to sort through all of the mail and deliver it door to door. It looks as though everyone's parents have sent all the things they've forgotten at home - and that they're mostly heavy things. I sigh, and get to work on sorting out the allowances, trying not to think about how ironic it is that I have to distribute the money to everyone this morning, and then try to earn it all back this afternoon.

Once the allowances are finished, I start sorting the packages, first by hall and then by name. It's going to take several trips to get everything delivered. I start lining everything up, going around the room starting from the corner by the door, and working my way in a spiral and trying to gauge how much I can carry in one go.

I sort Horse Hall last, vaguely aware that I don't feel like being disappointed when I don't get a single letter. I'm sure that my parents are back to being hazy about my existence, and as for my husband - well, I don't even dare hope to receive anything, for fear of being crushed with disappointment. And, as it turns out, I'm right - there isn't even a single envelope with my name on it in the stack. I ignore the galling sting of being forgotten, even though I can taste it in the back of my throat. Instead, I concentrate on sorting the packages, matching names and room numbers, until I get to the last box.

This one is confounding; the paper wrapping has neither a name or address, and I wonder how it got to Iris without one. It sits in the corner by itself, as I squint at it. Finally I sigh and pick it up, thinking maybe it's just upside down. And that's when I see it - when I touch the box, one small letter appears on the paper, on the upper right hand corner of the box.

"E"

I clap the hand that had touched the box to my mouth, huffing half in shock and half in happiness. The letter disappears as soon as my fingertips leave the paper, but there's no mistaking the tiny, precise handwriting. I reach out again, touching the parcel, and the "E" appears in jet ink.

Wasting no more time, I snatch up the box and tear the paper and the padding beneath it, unable to wait to see what my husband has sent me. And when I've torn the last of the padding away, I recognize the book about Nicholas Hawksmoor from the late Lord Montague's magical library - the book I hadn't had time to finish before I'd left England. I hug it to my chest, letting the corners of its cover dig into my clavicle. Even if he doesn't love me, he cared enough to send this, and as long as that's true, I don't care what anyone says to me. None of it matters. None of it.

It's a minute before I come to my senses and remember that I'm here in the mail room for a reason. The faster I finish my job, I decide, the faster I can get back to my book, so I shove my present onto a shelf, and scoop up as many Falcon Hall letters and packages that I can carry. I race down the halls, running - for the first time in what seems like months - headlong down the empty hallways. I count nine trips from the mail room and back, but it seems to be the work of moments to get everyone's allowances, letters, and packages to their doors.

I can barely see anyone's mail, but a few things still catch my attention. Minnie, for instance, receives a large and rather unwieldy potted orchid in a dazzling shade of orange. I have to take a separate trip just for the plant, walking slowly to make sure the delicate stems stay upright and don't snap. The card is pretty obvious - "TO MINNIE, LOVE JACOB" is written in huge, sprawling letters on the envelope. Jacob must be using his dads' money to lavish her with gifts, but I don't feel even the slightest twinge of jealousy. Flowers, as far as I'm concerned, have _nothing_ on books.

As I'm making my Toad Hall run, I also notice that my new friend gets quite a few letters, including one that comes in a blue envelope, the address written in an intricate, scrolling handwriting. The boyfriend most likely, I think, even though it's just a guess - there isn't a return address at the top corner of the envelope. He must be pretty fancy - the paper is thick with an even grain, and feels very expensive under my fingers as I slide it under the door to Ahmed's room.

Finally the last bit of mail is delivered and I race, as fast as I can, down Horse Hall and back to the mail room, not stopping as I enter the door, but straight to the shelf where I'd left the book.

But when I get there, the shelf is empty. I'm going so fast that I have to stop myself by grabbing the bottom edge of the shelf, and I stand for a moment, blinking in disbelief at the empty space. _Did I forget where I'd put my book?_ I wonder, but only for a second. Because I hear something behind me, and whip around.

Professor Terrec is sitting at one of the tables in the corner, with a book - _my book_ \- open in front of him. He turns a page, and if I didn't know any better, I would have thought he'd done it... well, ostentatiously. Almost mockingly.

"That's _mine_!" I blurt, without thinking, and Professor Terrec turns his intense, indigo eyes on me.

"Good morning - ah -" he starts, and then tilts his head to one side. "Now what should I call you?"

Everything up to the way he pronounces "you" sounds normal - American, like the standard newscaster accent. But the way he says "you" is drawn out and compressed by his pursed lips, until it sounds exotic, foreign and somehow menacing.

"E -" I start, but then decide that no, I don't want this teacher calling me by my first name. It's too familiar. "Miss Moon," I finish, glaring.

"E," he says. "So, then, this book is yours?" he says, holding up the book to the opening flyleaf. When I'd first started reading the book back at Yeavering Hall, the leaf was pristine. Now, it has a few lines of writing on it.

I have to step closer, and then closer again, to see what the writing says, because the handwriting is so so small. I walk straight to the other side of the table at which Professor Terrec is sitting, and then lean forward to read it.

_E-_

_I think you were reading this?_

_-H_

Even if it's not - well - _romantic_ or anything, I feel myself flush reading the words. Not only had my husband been thinking about me, he'd thought enough to remember what book I'd been reading when he'd last seen me, to realize I hadn't finished it, to remove it from his library and send it to me, and best of all, to actually write me a message on one of its pages, meaning the gift was a permanent one, not just a loan. It's a present, a real present, and the first one he'd given me that I could keep with a clear conscience.

But that dizzyingly happy thought comes crashing down as I register Professor Terrec's stern, disapproving expression next to the book he's holding open. _It doesn't suit his face_ , I think. He looks much better, much prettier, with the serene, dreamy expression he'd had when he'd first walked into the classroom on Monday morning.

"Yes," I say, letting the chill I feel inside me enter my voice. "It's mine." I reach to take it, but Professor Terrec pulls it away from my hand with a smooth, unhurried movement.

"Give it back!" I say it in almost a yell, my voice filling the room.

Professor Terrec doesn't react - doesn't even blink. "Give it back... what?" he says, in a calm, even voice.

His calm shakes me, and I'm unable to maintain my rage. I feel myself shrink before his stare. "Please?" I say, uncertain. "Please, it's my book -"

" _Sir_ ," he corrects me, going very quiet, and with a menace that hadn't been in his voice before.

My eyes drop to the floor, unable to hold his stare. "Please, sir," I say, in a barely audible voice. "May I have my book?"

I wait for his answer, and the silence stretches before me like an ocean.

Finally, Professor Terrec closes the book, and slides it across the table to me. I snatch it up, and clutch it to my chest, terrified that he'll change his mind and demand it back. He doesn't, though, and when I finally gather the courage to glance up, he's still assessing me coolly, his indigo eyes fixed on my face.

"What an educational gift," he says, deadpan. "May I ask who was thoughtful enough to send it?"

I open my mouth, an automatic instinct to give a direct answer to the authority figure who's asking me a question. But there's something about the tone of his voice that makes me hesitate, choking back my voice before I give my answer.

Professor Terrec raises his eyebrows at my reticence. "Should I guess?"

"I don't-" I start, unsure of how to finish the sentence in a way that won't get me into trouble.

Professor Terrec lets out an irritated breath. "Don't waste my intelligence, _Miss_ Moon," he says, "and don't waste my time. I assume that the 'H' refers to your husband, now the seventeenth Lord Montague?"

"I-" I start, wondering how to get out of answering, but then realize that nothing I say is going to convince him that someone else sent the book. "Yes," I answer.

"And why is it," Professor Terrec continues, "that while Lord Montague remains in England, you have returned to Iris Academy?"

The hairs on the back of my neck prickle as I consider what to say. Obviously I'm not telling this strange professor the details of my married life - but why would he even want to know?

"I… just… had to go back to school. That's all," I say. I have to keep from holding my breath as I wait to see whether he'll be satisfied with the answer.

Professor Terrec stares at me in silence, and his eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. But when he finally responds, all he says is "I see," then stands. "You're quite lucky to have a husband so interested in your continuing education, Miss Moon," he adds. "I hope that you will take proper advantage of the opportunity."

He walks out, leaving me standing there, still clutching my book.

I stand still in the mail room for a long time, wondering at the exchange. I ask myself, over and over, why my hackles should be raised over what, on its face, is an innocuous question about my whereabouts versus my husband's. The only thing I can think of is the fact that while everyone else has asked me what my husband is doing in England, Professor Terrec is the only one who'd asked me what _I_ was doing _here_.

My thoughts are interrupted by a glance at the clock - it's almost seven-thirty - and nearly time for me to meet Minnie. Instead of pondering Professor Terrec's behavior, I have to dash out the door and back to Horse Hall as fast as I can, keeping my book tight to my chest as I go. When I get back to my room, Virginia's still asleep, but Ellen is apparently up, and somewhere else - maybe getting a shower. I throw my book to the top bunk, open my wardrobe and pull the boxes of stationery out, grunting at their weight, but trying to keep as quiet as possible.

I've just taken the last box out of the wardrobe when there's a knock at the door. I have to jump the boxes to get the door before the knocking wakes Virginia, and when I do, I greet Minnie and Jacob, who are standing just outside the door. Minnie is wearing a blazing orange orchid bloom tucked behind her ear.

"Everything ready?" asks Minnie, and it's clear she's been anxious.

"Shhh!" I hiss, motioning to the still-sleeping Virginia. "Come on." I hoist one of the boxes, leaning backward with the effort - it's pretty heavy.

Minnie motions to take a box, but Jacob stops her with a quick motion. "I've got it, babe," he says, and hefts the two remaining boxes himself. I can tell he's cast a surreptitious spell to lighten both of them, but based on the look Minnie gives him just then, he's as good as lifted a two-ton infant sperm whale in order to return it to its natural habitat or something.

I wish someone was here - Ellen, or even a fully conscious Virginia - for me to roll my eyes at, but since there isn't anyone, I pretend Hieronymous is here to help set up the fundraiser. _I'd give him a side-eye at that,_ I think, _and he'd twitch his mouth as though he was about to smile - but he wouldn't, he'd just stare straight ahead and pretend he hadn't seen._ This strikes me as so accurate, I have to hide my smile behind my box of notepads as Minnie closes the room door, and we head down the hall toward the courtyard.

Minnie and Jacob have already set up our stand in the courtyard corner, so we set our boxes down beside it, and began scooping out their contents. My mom and I had spent a day watching movies and sorting the stationery into study packs together, making sure every pack had at least a pad, notecards, envelopes, a pen and a pencil. Most of the packs don't match, but we'd made an effort to make sure the colors at least coordinated.

"These are really cute!" squeals Minnie as she extracts a pack with an envelope and notecards that are decorated with pictures of cartoon pandas. Jacob looks over her shoulder at them, and wrinkles his nose.

"They're kinda girly," he says, and Minnie digs him in the ribs with her elbow.

"Just set them up!" says Minnie, who's trying not to smile. Jacob starts stacking packs up on the table. "No," says Minnie, "overlap them so people can see what they are!" She gets up and starts helping Jacob with the packs on the table, leaving me to crouch behind and continue unpacking.

I try to concentrate on what I'm doing, but it's tough when Minnie and Jacob are giggling and playfully pushing at each other on the other side of the table. After a few batches of study packs, neither of them are paying any attention to me, so instead of handing the packets to them, I shove them onto the top of the table and keep unpacking.

When both of them go quiet, I look up, wondering if they'd decided to help out after all. But instead I glance at the pair just in time to watch Jacob re-tucking Minnie's orchid into her hair, and, when the blossom is in place, barely kissing the tip of her nose.

I hurriedly turn my face back down to the box I'm unpacking, feeling as though I'd tried peeking into someone's door, or going through es letters. And underneath that, somewhere in the pit of my stomach, there's the feeling of black, bitter ooze bubbling up from under the surface. _Is it jealousy?_ I wonder. _Am I jealous?_

At first I think that no, of course I can't be jealous. I don't want Jacob or anyone like him, and I don't want the kind of public display he's been putting on. But the one thought I can't shake is the thought that I'm not the kind of girl who inspires boys to try to put flowers in their hair. And although I can tell myself that I don't even want that sort of thing, I still feel a dragging sensation in my chest every time I picture that orange flower in Minnie's chestnut curls.

 _Just don't think about it_ , I advise myself, but telling me not to think is about as effective as telling me not to breathe. By the time my fingernails scrape the bottom of the last box, I feel a hot, dry sensation behind my eyes; the harbinger of later tears.

There isn't much more time to think, fortunately, as students begin to crowd the courtyard after the vans take a squad of freshmen to the mall. We've only barely finished setting up when our table attracts a sizeable gaggle of students - mostly girls, I have to admit - exclaiming over the cute or pretty designs on the stationery sets. The initial crowd draws more students over, and soon we're doing a brisk business. Minnie handles most of the sales, turning her dazzling smile on every purchaser, while Jacob counts change - not a strenuous job, as our packs are priced at five dollars each. I'm left to make sure the packs are displayed nicely, and to replenish them with reserved stock when the display empties.

The morning wears on, and my attempt to mimic Minnie's smile begins to feel plastered on my face. I've just finished frantically replacing another line of stationery when I see Suki meander across the courtyard toward our table, a dreamy look on her face. As she approaches, I notice that someone has gotten after her about the dragon embroidered on her uniform - it's gone, with only a few green and gold threads dangling from the fabric to show where it had been. She doesn't seem to mind too much. I still feel a bit bad for her hard work being erased like that, though, so before I can think too much about it, I duck under the table and scrabble through the few remaining study packs left in the last box.

There was one pack - one of a very few coordinated packs - that I'd noticed, and immediately marked as a favorite. It's a set of green notecards, pad, envelopes, pen and mechanical pencil colored green, and sporting an adorable, anime-style Godzilla menacing a city. The papers and envelopes all have the Godzilla in the lower right-hand corner, preparing to stomp a cityscape depicted across the bottom of each page, and there's a little plastic Godzilla figure topping the pen. I'd considered keeping the set for myself, but I feel too bad about Suki's lost dragon to keep the set away from the person who, I now realize, is its proper owner.

"Hey, Suki!" I call out as she approaches. Suki barely deigns to acknowledge my greeting, but she does drift over to the table. "It's an advantageous day for banniks," she says to no one in particular.

"Uh... right," I say, while Jacob and Minnie give her baffled looks. "Anyway, do you want to buy a study pack? I have one that I thought you'd like." I hold out the Godzilla themed stationery set, and wait for her to register it.

When Suki focuses on the pack I'm holding out to her, her already huge eyes go even wider. She holds out her hand to take the set, and brings it close to her face, examining it. Finally, she turns her eyes up to me.

"Is - is his name Chester?" she asks, referring - I presume - to the Godzilla stomping the city on the pages.

"Well-ll," I start, unsure how to respond. I glance at Minnie and Jacob, but they both look just as confused as they had when Suki had first approached. I think for a moment and then say "yes. His name is Chester, and he told me he was waiting for you to take him home."

Suki gives a little gasp of amazement, and clutches the stationery set to her chest. "I _knew it!_ " she whispers, and holds out a rather dirty, crumpled five dollar bill that I'm sure had been clean and crisp when I'd tucked it into her envelope this morning. I take it, and pass it to Jacob.

"You two have fun!" I say, as Suki wanders away, still clutching her pack to her chest and - I think - crooning something to the little plastic Godzilla that tops her pen.

"What a _freak_ ," says Jacob, behind me, and I turn to glare at him.

Minnie glares too. "Stop it Jake," she says. "That was really nice, Eliza."

Somehow Minnie's saying so makes me feel a bit embarrassed. "I just thought she'd like it," I mutter, and turn back to set out the last of the stock.

"Speaking of freaks," I hear Jacob say, and I glance back over my shoulder. But all I can see is Ahmed approaching the table, half hiding his face behind his sheaf of black hair.

When Ahmed sees me poke my head over the top of the table, he gives me his crooked half-smile, and I find it infectious enough to smile back.

"Hey loser," says Ahmed.

"Hey loser," I say back, grinning wider. "Buy some stationery? It's for freshman initiation. I have some very nice selections in blue."

Ahmed sticks his tongue out at me, and I laugh. But he does approach the table and take a look at the wares. "Got anything pretty?" he asks.

"Why?" Jacob asks him. "Who are you writing?"

Ahmed frowns up at Jacob - no, more than frowns, he scowls. And that's when I remember that Ahmed used to be a Falcon too, like Jacob. Was his quitting the hall something to do with Jacob?

"Sure do!" I say, faking cheer as I start shuffling through the remaining study packs on the table. "Look, this one's got peacock feathers-"

"Me and Logan are rooming with Maxwell this year," interrupts Jacob. "Did you know that?"

Ahmed doesn't drop his scowl, and he doesn't look at the peacock feathered stationery set I'm holding out to him. "I'll pass, thanks, Eliza," he says, and slouches off, moving his head so his hair hides his face from the three of us behind the table.

I turn to scowl at Jacob myself. "Thanks for losing us that sale," I snap.

Jacob snorts. "You're not actually, like, friends with Ahmed, are you?" he says.

I bristle. "So what if I am?" I say.

"Well you know what he did, right?" asks Jacob with a smirk. "I mean, _we have a very nice selection in blue_."

"I don't know what you mean," I say. "Just his boyfriend wrote him a letter in a blue envelope."

"Oh," says Jacob. "Figures."

"Come on, Jake," Minnie says, nervously. "If Eliza says she doesn't know-"

"She knows," says Jacob. "You know who his boyfriend is, right?"

"No, I don't know," I say, raising my voice almost to a shout. "And I don't c-"

But Jacob interrupts me before I can get the word out. "It's Damien Ramsey," he says.

And I shut up.


	5. Chapter 5

Damien Ramsey - it seems as though I haven't thought about him in months. And I haven't wanted to think about him.

Jacob's still smirking. "I just thought," he says, "that if anyone knew about him, it would be you. You were his freshman at initiation, right?"

"Yeah," I say, not really paying attention. Jacob is right - I had been Damien's freshman at last year's initiation, and I remember being utterly charmed by him. He'd been so strange and different, with his blue skin, purple hair and bat wings. He'd also been kind, making sure that the other seniors - Angela in particular - hadn't given me a hard time during the week when freshmen are vulnerable to senior bullying. And most importantly, he'd made sure that the love letter he'd asked for - the one that had shown up on Professor Grabiner's desk - hadn't landed me in detention. After initiation ended, I'd been elated that I'd made my first friend at Iris Academy who wasn't also my roommate.

But after the initiation picnic, Damien had blown me off, saying that he wasn't bored enough to hang out with me. I'd been angry, but I'd figured that Virginia had been right - that Damien was no good - and I'd written him off as a jerk.

A few weeks later, Damien had stopped me on the way to the Dark Dance, saying that his brusque treatment of me had all been a misunderstanding, and that he wanted to be friends. I had been about to tell him that yes, of course we could be friends, but something stopped me. I don't know exactly what it was, but I'd had an odd feeling, a sort of sickly sweet feeling, that reminded me of a long ago family reunion I'd attended when I was about eight. An older cousin had cornered me while I'd been playing with some of the other kids, and had whispered that she knew where her dad kept a stack of magazines with naked people in them, and would I like to go with her and see? I'd hesitated - admittedly curious - but the strange sickly feeling had stopped me. So when I felt that same feeling upon hearing Damien beg for friendship, all I wanted to do was get away from him as quickly as possible. I'd told Damien that we couldn't be friends. Although I'd felt terrible when he'd stormed off, I'd also felt... well... clean, somehow. Relieved. And I hadn't given him another thought until-

"You _did_ hear about what happened last spring?" pushes Jacob, and I have to think back again. Virginia had said... something during the spring about Damien getting expelled, something about him attacking a student, but I'd been so preoccupied about my marriage at the time that I hadn't paid any attention.

"Damien started dating Ahmed," Jacob says, "and in March Damien left this note for Ahmed to meet him in the gym at midnight? Like, super romantic, right?" Jacob scoffs at this, but he's also holding back a smirk, apparently not immune to the joys of spreading gossip. "Anyway, whatever happened, Professor Potsdam chased Damien off campus with, like, flaming swords or something, and expelled him. And Ahmed spent the night in the infirmary. Blood loss," he adds, lowering his voice.

"That's not Ahmed's fault," I say.

I hadn't expected it, but Jacob's smile turns even wider and more self-satisfied than before. "Well yeah, I guess _that_ wasn't Ahmed's fault," he says, "but a few weeks after that, Ahmed started getting these letters. His roommate Maxwell couldn't read them, but they always came in blue envelopes. Obviously from Damien."

My stomach gives a lurch as I remember this morning's blue envelope with the scrolling writing on it.

"So," continues Jacob, "Maxwell starts asking Ahmed is he really going to fall for Damien again, and Ahmed keeps saying no, no, right? But it turns out he's been writing to Damien this whole time. And," Jacob continues, "he starts meeting him. Like, outside school. The guy who put him in the infirmary, you know?" Jacob's enjoying himself now, relishing the fact that he's telling the story to someone who hasn't heard it before. And oddly, I'm reminded of someone else - my father-in-law - who loved to talk, who loved to show off in front of people he thought were stupid, or at least stupider than he'd been. Involuntarily, I press a hand to my chest, just underneath my sternum, where I still feel a little... loose.

"Anyway, then Ahmed does something _really_ stupid - he asks Professor Potsdam to let Damien back into school." Jacob scoffs at this. "After what he'd done, after he sent Ahmed to the infirmary and everything, Ahmed asks Professor Potsdam to let him back in! Saying he loves him! Well, of course she said no. And finally Maxwell has to confront him, like, during the final exam. And asks him to promise not to speak to Damien again. And Ahmed said-"

"He said no?" I ask, a desultory tone in my voice.

"Yep," Jacob affirms, his smile no longer gleeful, but wry. "So Maxwell, like, refuses to speak to him again. They fail their final exam and Maxwell gets assigned to our room this year. And Ahmed? Gets put in Toad. Where he belongs."

"Why?" I snap. "Because he loves somebody?"

"Somebody who tried to kill him? Uh, _yeah_ ," Jacob replies.

"Well," I say, ignoring that last, "what's so bad about being a Toad anyway?"

"They're _freaks_ ," says Jacob, as if that should be the most obvious thing in the world. "Toads and Snakes both. That's where Professor Potsdam puts the students who don't belong."

That doesn't seem right to me at all. It _is_ true that the Snakes and Toads I've met are a little unusual, but they're nowhere near not "belonging" to anything. Not that I'd ever gone out of my way to talk to any of them myself, now that I think about it.

"Anyway," says Jacob, "if you want to be friends with Ahmed - I mean, whatever. But you should at least know what you're getting into."

"Okay," I snap. "And if you want to be an enormous dick, I mean, whatever."

Jacob snorts and gives me a satisfied smirk. I huff out a breath, and turn away, suddenly sick of the entire conversation. But as I turn, I catch Minnie's eye, and freeze. She's not smiling - she's glaring at me, her eyes wet and red-rimmed.

"Uh-" I say, suddenly mortified. But Minnie doesn't let me finish - she swishes her hair to one side, blocking her face, and starts gathering the leftover stationery sets, stuffing them into one of the storage boxes without heeding whether the pages of the sets get bent or folded.

"He-ey," Jacob says, in a much gentler tone than he used with me. "Come on, babe. It's okay." He puts an arm around her shoulders to stop her jamming more stationery into the box, and then draws her away, murmuring something into her ear that's too low for me to hear. Minnie wipes her eyes furiously, sniffs, and lets Jacob walk her away from our stand and towards Butterfly Hall. He gives me a sardonic look over his shoulder before they go inside.

I'm left standing in the courtyard, frozen in shock. Okay, maybe I was a little mean to call Jacob a dick, but he was being pretty mean about Ahmed - the Snakes and the Toads too - but now he gets to be the hero just because I lost my temper? Still seething, I finish clearing the stationery sets off of the stand.

By the time I've finished, Jacob and Minnie still haven't come back, so I have to disassemble the stand by myself. It's large and unwieldy, and even though I cast a strength spell on myself, I'm dripping with sweat before I can manage to bring the whole thing down. The other classes' representatives have vanished by the time I collect the stand pieces, our money box, and the box of leftover stationery to deliver them to school storage and our class office.

By the time I've locked everything away, I'm exhausted, hot, sweaty, and irate, despite the impressive profit we've made for the initiation picnic. I stalk back to my room with the leftover stationery, considering whether I ought to take another shower, or to just change clothes.

When I get to my room, I open the door but then halt in the doorway, open-mouthed in disbelief at Ellen, who's sitting at her desk, with my book in her hands.

"Hey!" I shout, and Ellen whips her head toward the door, blushing a bit when she sees me.

"Oh - hey Eliza, I was just-" Ellen starts, but I don't let her finish before I drop my stationery box, stalk to where she's sitting and snatch the book out of her hands.

"Jeez - Eliza, will you chill?" snaps Virginia, who's sitting on her bed.

"That's _mine_! I shout, turning from Ellen to Virginia and back again. "You don't get to just take my stuff!"

"It's just a book!" Virginia shouts back.

"It's _my_ book!" I retort. "It was on _my_ bed-"

"Why are you freaking out so much?" Virginia snaps. "Is it from _him_ or something?"

I freeze, mouth open, clutching my book to my chest. "Wh-" I start. "Why do you-"

"It _is_ , isn't it?" Virginia says, standing and scowling, her arms crossed over her chest. "Why's he sending you presents, anyway? I thought you were getting divorced."

"That's none of your business!" I snap. "He's my _husband_ -"

"Yeah," says Virginia, "and I thought _we_ were your friends, so what's the big secret?"

Whatever I was about to say is suddenly snatched from my throat. All I can do is stare as Virginia glowers at me.

"Eliza," Ellen says quietly, "if this is from Professor Grabiner, when were you last reading it?"

My realization that Ellen read the flyleaf to my book shocks me out of my stupor, I whirl on her and spit "I told you, it's none of your _business_! _Don't_ go through my stuff and don't touch my books!"

No one answers me, and I come back to myself as my stomach takes a sickening flip. I briefly wonder if there's a way I can take all of it back - to re-enter my room and somehow make things okay again.

"Okay," Ellen says, in a voice both smooth and cool. "I'm sorry."

The room suddenly feels too hot and too close, and my skin, crusted with drying sweat, feels scaly and foul.

"I - have to go-" I say in a small voice, and rush out without looking back.

I jog through the hall, towards the doors that lead to the grounds surrounding the outer buildings of Iris Academy.

The grounds are full of sophomores, juniors and seniors wandering the paths and sitting on the benches, enjoying the afternoon sun. I'm filled with a sudden loathing for all of them - for their easy smiles, their laughter, the way they're talking with their friends without snapping. Instead of slowing down, I go faster, dodging the groups ambling down the paths. Once I reach the edge of the grounds, I take off in a full run.

I haven't run - not really - in the year since I first came to Iris Academy. I used to run on the track team, first in middle school, then for my first two years of high school, and I hadn't been bad at it. I wasn't driven, but I had enjoyed it enough that I took practice seriously, waking early to run every morning and attending practice even when my friends skipped. My athletic endeavors - save the sports club and occasional gym class at Iris - have come to a stop, as the Academy doesn't have competitive athletic teams. And I had consequently forgotten what it was like to haul off and seriously run.

Even with a book - a thick, heavy one - clutched in my arms, I can feel myself fall back into the old habits I had developed through years of training and practice. I can practically hear my old high school coach barking at me - _knees up, head up, shoulders down, Moon! Hustle!_ \- and my breath comes full and deep, filling every recess in my chest.

This lasts for about two minutes before I feel a stitch in one side, and come stumbling to a stop, gasping for air, dropping my book onto the grass to clutch my knees. The edges of my vision go red, and for a brief moment I feel dizzy before the fit passes, and I can rise again.

This, I decide, is just the icing atop an entirely depressing morning. I used to be able to run middle distances - eight hundred to fifteen hundred meter races - without difficulty, but after a year without running, my racing abilities seem completely shot. Coach O'Donnell would definitely be ashamed.

I could, I suppose, bolster my strength with another green magic spell, but somehow this feels like it would be cheating. I had, after all, gotten myself onto the track team, and even won myself a smattering of races, under my own non-magical power. And anyway, Virginia had told me last year that magic and athletics aren't an approved mix in the magical world. If I want to be able to run again, I'm going to have to do things the old-fashioned way, or not at all.

After a minute passes and the stitch in my side stops twinging quite so much, I pick up my book, dust it off, and start walking toward a crop of trees, my breathing still coming fast and harsh in my throat.

After a brief check for signs of poison ivy, I settle myself on the ground, back propped against one of the trees, and open my book. The message on the flyleaf is still there, but somehow doesn't inspire the almost giddy joy I had felt this morning. Now it doesn't seem like enough - just one line of writing, after he promised he'd write me letters?

 _Just stop_ , I scold myself, _he gave you a book and now you're being picky. What kind of wife are you?_

 _One that's going to be divorced in four months no matter what I do_ , comes the immediate reply inside my head. This does nothing to lighten my mood, so instead I open my book in an attempt to distract myself.

It's a lovely book, bound in maroon leather with nicely aged pages, and that spicy-vanilla smell that's particular to aging, well kept libraries. And I really had enjoyed reading it over the summer. Now, however, I can't seem to keep my mind on the text, and have to give up as my eyes slide over the pages without taking anything in. All I can see is Ellen's wounded expression when I'd snatched the book out of her hands, and all I can think is _God, why did I do that?_

Frustrated, I abandon the text and flip to the pictures instead - a staggered series of engraved plates depicting the architectural work of Nicholas Hawksmoor.

These, at least, get my attention, and I pore over the intricate detail of the gothic west towers of Westminster Abbey, and the squat, arched columns of Saint Alphege's, Greenwich. But the best one, the prize, is in the middle of the book - a depiction of Saint Amphibalus's at Oxford - the only college structure that Hawksmoor was able to complete for the university before it lost the funds it had allocated to his architectural work. The non-magical colleges that Oxford had commissioned from Hawksmoor had to be re-designed and completed by other architects, making Saint Amphibalus's an unusual treasure.

 _I'm going_ , I tell the plate, running my eyes over the thin black lines on the page. _Just you wait_.

It's a while before I can bring myself to look at the next plate, but when I do, I hiss in my breath in surprise.

The plate depicts the west front of Christ Church, Spitalfields, a strange, almost forbidding structure. With its narrow, high steeple, the building seems almost to jut out of the ground, like the canine tooth of some indifferent, pagan god emerging from the center of the earth. But the thing that shocked me wasn't the picture, it's the piece of thick, cream-colored paper covered in tiny script inserted between the plate and its protective tissue cover. And as I ease the paper out of the book, I can't help but grin so hard, it hurts my face. It seems I've gotten a letter after all.

_Eliza,_

_Rain yesterday, rain today, and unless I am very much mistaken, I expect that it will rain again tomorrow. In the past weeks, I've become convinced that my native country's unfortunate history of imperialism resulted from nothing more than a misguided attempt to get ourselves out of the wet._

_Wet or no, it appears that I shall be staying in London for the foreseeable future. My only consolation is that I am not forced to remain in Northumberland, which I understand is unseasonably cold at this time, even for the north. It seems that my late father was not in the habit of keeping a great deal of magical artifacts at Yeavering Hall, which means that the extent to which I was forced to clean up after him was curtailed, to my great relief. Mrs. Barton is currently heading up the remaining arrangements, and expects to have the whole wretched place shuttered by Michaelmas._

_In the meantime, I find myself burdened with the legal matters of taking over the family estate - both magical and non-magical - the latter of which throws me into contact with the dreadful Mr. Hoffman almost daily. Had I not considerable evidence to the contrary, I would be forced to assume that my father engaged the man for the sole purpose of torturing me in his absence. In addition, I have had to remain in contact with representatives of the UK's magical council in order to ensure that no magical artifacts are distributed to outsiders through testaments and the like. This, needless to say, has caused significant delay in the probate process._

_I shall spare you the details of the matters in which I am engaged, for which I expect to receive an outpouring of abject gratitude in your next letter. I can only hope that the start of the new school year is marginally more interesting for you, though I caution you against too much excitement. I expect you to remain among the living for the time being, at least until I can divorce you and have done with this entire mess. Afterward, please feel free to throw yourself in front of as many murderous creatures as you like, so long as they have nothing to do with me._

_I hope that you have found the enclosed, or rather, the enclosing book to meet your satisfaction. It seemed rather a pity to allow you to leave something this educational to remain unfinished. While I cannot say that I condone your taste in the Gothic - whether architectural, literary or otherwise - I admit that it could certainly be worse._

_Do let me know how you are faring in your second year. I expect you to excel in your academic efforts, however, so please do not spend an inordinate amount of time upon correspondence. As for myself, I must end this letter here; I hope to write again within the week._

_Until such time, I remain_

_Yours,_

_H_

_P.S._ _Abject_ _gratitude, mind._

I read the letter over again, and then a third time, the smile fading from my face with every line. It's a perfectly nice letter, yes, but that's all it is. All that about looking forward to the divorce - that's a joke, of course, I recognize Hieronymous's mix of gallows humor and bone-dry sarcasm. But beyond that, it feels distant, like it's a friend or an acquaintance writing to me, not a husband.

Part of me, the rational part, knows that this is exactly how he should act. He's already told me that he can't be my husband in more than a nominal sense, since I'm still too young. But the not-rational part feels a sinking, dragging sort of sensation when confronted with real proof of our arm's-length detente, especially after we'd shared - well, whatever it was we'd shared on the night before I'd left England.

If he'd been really dismissive, if he hadn't sent me a letter at all, or just sent a curt note, or asked me not to write any more, I could have at least cried or felt justified in being sad. With this forcible friendliness, I feel ungrateful for being disappointed, and that just makes everything worse.

I sit under the tree for a long time, long enough for the light to turn gold behind me, and for my limbs to go stiff. I read through my letter and flip through my book without really registering their contents, my eyes feeling dry and hard.

The air around me has begun to go a little cold, and I start to wonder what time it is, when I hear a rustling in the foliage nearby. I look up, startled, to see Ahmed making his way out of the brush.

He stops when he sees me, and we stare at each other for a full minute.

Finally, I break the silence. "What are you doing here?"

He doesn't answer for a moment, but furrows his thick eyebrows so that they seem to hood his face.

"Are you gonna make me say, like, 'I could as you the same question?'" he finally asks. "Because I'll have you know, I avoid clichés like the plague."

This makes me snicker, and he flashes me his crooked smile.

"I was just heading back," he says. "Wanna go get dinner?"

"Oh," I say, suddenly uncertain. "Maybe not."

"Why's that?"

"Well," I say, not quite able to look Ahmed in the eye, "I feel like I'm having this competition with myself to see how many friends I can lose in one day."

Ahmed considers this, still knitting his eyebrows. "Okay," he says. "Try me."

"Um," I start. "Well... you smell like... deviled eggs. And - uh - I hate the color blue. Worst color."

Ahmed smiles again. "Nope," he says. "Didn't work. Anyway, I like deviled eggs."

"Well I think they're gross," I reply.

"Still not working," Ahmed says.

I stand up, trying to ignore the ache in my butt from sitting on the hard ground for so long. "Well maybe I'll do better at dinner," I say.

"Doubt it," Ahmed says, starting to walk toward school. "I heard you called Jacob Blaising an enormous dick this morning."

"Already?" I say, incredulous.

"Iris Academy is, if nothing else, an extremely efficient gossip mill," Ahmed informs me with a lofty smile. "Although by the time it got to me, you had punched him in the face and Minnie had set your sale stand on fire with a flare spell."

"I certainly get myself into weird situations when I'm not around," I say, though I'm already half smiling at the thought of how this story must have come into being.

"And you throw a mean punch," Ahmed confirms, looking completely serious.

"Yes I do," I reply, and we tromp over the field that leads to the Iris Academy grounds.

We get to the cafeteria just as it's opening for dinner, the result of which is that I get back to my room while Ellen and Virginia are, presumably, still eating. It's nice to have the place to myself for once, especially since I still feel terrible about yelling at my roommates this afternoon. I determine to apologize to Ellen for freaking out - and to Virginia too, I guess, but part of me is still irritated. It was _my_ book, after all, sitting on my bed. Ellen didn't have any business going through my stuff, and I still feel a squidge in my stomach every time I think of her reading the flyleaf. She could have read my _letter_ if she'd found it, I realize - and it makes me feel even worse. Even if there wasn't anything, you know, _intimate_ in the letter, it still makes me almost sick to think of anyone else reading it.

I sift through my box of unsold stationery and pick out a set - ivory colored with a spring green border. I do give the peacock feather patterned set a look, but decide that it's a little too gaudy - better for writing to someone like Damien Ramsey than Hieronymous Grabiner. Maybe I'll give Ahmed that set for free after all.

I climb up onto my bunk, settle myself on my stomach, and prop the notepad up on my new book.

 _Dear,_ I write, and then stop.

The blank page of the notepad suddenly seems to stretch itself before me. I don't know how I could possibly fill it, unless I write all those words I'm not supposed to say any more.

So instead, I write _Mom and Dad._

I stare at the page again, feeling both relieved and disappointed with myself. This seems cowardly.

 _Well_ , I think, _he did say not to spend too long writing. You've got that red magic essay to get through tonight because you need all day tomorrow to get through the reading for red magic and get ahead on blue before Monday. So first write this letter and then take a shower, because seriously, you smell like a gym sock._

I tap the end of the pen against the page, and then write: _Could you send me my running shoes?_


	6. Chapter 6

_Dear Hieronymous,_

_OH THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU. THE MOST ABJECT OF GRATITUDES TO YOU DEAR SIR FOR YOUR KIND RESTRAINT. THE DETAILS OF YOUR LIFE, STULTIFYING AS THEY MUST BE, HOLD NO INTEREST FOR AN ADVENTURESS SUCH AS MYSELF. YOUR FORBEARANCE IS TRULY THE STUFF OF LEGENDS._

_There. Abject enough for you? Actually I think you're selling yourself short. Getting to run around London is probably way more fun than being cooped up here at Iris. Oh except I forgot - you don't have fun. Well then, it's probably just as boring as you say it is, but that's your own fault._

_We just had Initiation Week, as you've probably guessed. It's a lot more relaxing this year, since all I had to do was buy supplies for the weekend picnic. Actually, now that I'm not a terrified freshman anymore, I think that the seniors are probably just as nervous as the freshman, trying to think of ways to assert their superiority over an entire class. Oh - and just think, it was this time last year when I wrote you the first in a series of extremely romantic letters, of which this is the latest installment. I still think your teeth are kind of like knives, though no, I have no idea what I meant by that, or why it is romantic. It just is._

_Anyway, you'll be happy to know that this year, I have not become caught up in the creation of love letters. I get up early every day to study._

* * *

I get up early every day to run.

On Monday morning I wake in the dark, my portable alarm next to me on the bed so that I can whack it before it makes too much noise and wakes Ellen and Virginia. I don't turn on the light, but peel off my pajamas and tug on my gym clothes, which I'd set at the foot of my bed the night before. I creep from the room, picking up my shoes as I go, and slip into the hallway. My regular school shoes aren't exactly suited for running, and I can't transfigure them all the way into running shoes yet, but I do manage to make the soles a little more grippy and the inners a bit more cushy. Once they're transfigured and on my feet, I make my way through the hall and out the door.

The outdoor air is cool and moist, feeling almost wet as I slide into it. I pause, breathing for a moment, feeling my skin pucker into gooseflesh before I set out in a jog.

I don't make the mistake I made on Saturday, trying to sprint right out of the gate, but move at a slowish pace until I feel my muscles begin to warm and my limbs begin to move in their familiar pattern. I feel good enough that when I reach the end of the grounds I don't turn around, but veer away to the road that leads down the mountain.

Being in the Green Mountains in the early autumn dawn is almost heartbreakingly beautiful. All the trees are still green and lush, and the air begins to warm as the sun begins its rise before me - pearl pink, blush, pale coral. The road winds down the mountain, and the act of running downhill feels almost like flying. But by the time I reach a hairpin turn halfway down the mountain, I realize that I'll need to turn back now or else I'll be wheezing before I get back to the top.

It's slower going uphill, but the sun rising above the trees is both more terrible and beautiful than I could imagine. It rises yellow and fierce in the east, burning away the moisture in the air. I make it halfway back before I stagger and have to walk the rest of the way, breath searing through my lungs as though the sun had set the very air on fire. I feel exhausted but somehow numbed, anesthetized from the previous week, able to take whatever initiation week can throw at me.

_I'm still rooming with Ellen and Virginia this year, and things are pretty much the same - they say hi, and hope you're doing well in England._

When I get back to the room after my shower, both Ellen and Virginia are gone - already headed to breakfast, I guess. I finish getting dressed, half relieved that I won't have to talk to them, and half lonely. I'd made a halting apology to Ellen when she'd gotten back to our room on Saturday night, and she'd accepted, but in a hard, cool voice that put me in mind of a slab of seamless marble. Try as I might, my apologies slid off as soon as I'd tried to make them. Since then, we'd exchanged a few polite words when we'd found ourselves in the room together, but nothing more. Virginia, on the other hand, is pointedly not speaking to me.

I finish getting dressed, and by the time I get out the door, Ahmed's in the hall waiting for me.

"Breakfast?" he suggests, and I agree, grateful that there's someone in this school willing to be my friend. Still, I'm nervous about going into the cafeteria - yesterday, we'd ducked in and out just as a meal had opened or closed so as to avoid the rest of the eating students. Today is the first day I'll have to face everyone during regular meal hours.

_And I've been spending time with the rest of my friends. It's great to see them now that the summer is over._

When we get to the cafeteria, it's packed and noisy, full of students brandishing trays and jostling each other around the tables. Once Ahmed and I fill our coffee cups and get trays of eggs, toast and fruit, we venture out into the crowd to try to find somewhere to sit. There isn't much space, so we have to weave our way through a forest of scraping chairs and dodging freshmen. I spot Ellen and Virginia at a table, surrounded by Pastel, Luke, Logan, Donald, Jacob and Minnie. Minnie glances up at me as I pass, and both of us quickly look away again.

"Let's sit there," I say, pointing at a table in the far corner - the same one I'd taken Ellen and Virginia to talk just last week. The thought makes me ache a little, now that the two of them aren't sitting with me.

Like last week, Suki is alone at the table, and this time she's drawing a pattern on a square of scrambled eggs with ketchup from a packet. I almost skirt around her to sit down, but all of the sudden feel badly that last week I'd ignored her in the same way that I'm being ignored now. So instead I say "hey, Suki."

Suki looks up with her slightly goggly eyes and blinks at me, ketchup packet in one hand, and the pen with the little Godzilla topper in the other.

"Canme'n'Ahmedsitwithyou?" I blurt, the words tumbling out of me in my rush to get this embarrassing question over with.

Suki doesn't say anything, and for a second I think she's going to say no. But then I realize that she's waiting for something.

"And Chester!" I correct, nodding to the pen. "Can we sit with you and Chester?"

Suki beams at me and says "sure," dipping her pen so that Chester appears to nod his agreement. Ahmed cuts his eyes at me for a moment, but then gives his crooked grin. "Hey Suki," he says. "Hey Chester."

"Chester is pleased to make your acquaintance," Suki says, and we sit.

"Well," Ahmed says, "I guess this meeting of the Iris Academy Losers' Club is now in session."

* * *

_Anyway, Initiation Week wasn't so bad this year. I guess that's mostly because I'm not a freshman, but I really didn't see much bullying going on. Instead, everyone was in good spirits, and just had fun together. It might be because the teachers sort of laid down the law before things got started, which was probably for the best._

* * *

Ahmed, Suki and I make our way through the crowd of students into the gymnasium and take seats in the very back row. For some reason, my heart feels like it's palpitating in my chest.

 _Just relax,_ I tell myself. _You'll be fine. You're not a freshman anymore, no one will make you write love letters or abandon you._

This last thought startles me, partly because I hadn't thought I'd been worried about being abandoned - but mostly because I feel as though I've been abandoned already, and the worst is over. _There isn't anything else that could go wrong - is there_? I find myself thinking.

We wait for the incumbent senior class president to take the stage, but ten minutes go by, then fifteen. The entire gymnasium begins to hum, and then to buzz with the murmurs of wondering students. Twenty minutes pass, and still no one appears at the podium.

"Excellent," Ahmed says. "Ten more minutes and we'll be so late for class we won't be able to have one this morning."

"But I had green magic today!" wails Suki. "Chester was going to learn his first spell!"

The ten minutes pass as the student body becomes louder and more restless, but just as Ahmed hisses "wanna go?" someone strides to the podium. That someone is - to my dismay - Professor Terrec.

He's walking calmly, serenely, with the same dreamy expression on his face that I'd seen the first day in class. Again, I'm struck by his rather unearthly beauty - and a little affected by it. He looks like a fairy tale prince, both beautiful and unapproachable, about to confront a dragon. I sigh before I can help myself.

"Good morning students," Professor Terrec says in his fuzzy not-quite-an-accent. "I am Professor Terrec. Many of the freshman and sophomore students have met me in their blue and red magic courses. I am very pleased to be invited to instruct you this year."

A collective sigh wafts up from the audience, but I shake myself, freeing myself from the spell of his beauty. I can just picture Professor Grabiner's reaction to Professor Terrec's announcement - stony-faced silence, one eyebrow raised a hair's breadth. Imagining this sends fierce longing bubbling up through my chest, and I look at my hands, worried that it's too plain on my face, how much I miss my husband.

"However," Professor Terrec continues from the lectern, "I must now introduce my second capacity at Iris Academy - ensuring the continued safety of its students."

A murmur washes through the crowd, and even I can't help casting a quizzical glance at Ahmed. He looks about as confused as I feel.

"The United States' magical council has been made aware of several incidents involving the serious misuse of magic that took place during the last school year," says Professor Terrec. "These incidents placed several students' lives at risk. One of these incidents even involved an instructor at this Academy - one who, perhaps wisely, has elected not to return this year."

A rustle through the crowd as most of the students turn their heads to look at me.

"That's not fair!" I say. I meant it to be a shout, but it comes out in a whisper so quiet that only Ahmed and Suki seem to hear me. Ahmed jabs me in the arm with his elbow.

I stare up at Professor Terrec who seems to glance at me with a rather smug expression, but it's gone so quickly that I might have only imagined it.

I open my mouth again, though I'm not sure what I want to say exactly - only that I want it to be loud - but Ahmed hisses in my ear. "C'mon Eliza - _don't_." So I don't. I just press my lips together and glare up as Professor Terrec continues his speech.

"The purpose of your education at Iris Academy is to learn the uses of magic, but also to become responsible for the great power that the accident of your birth has placed at your fingertips," says Professor Terrec. "To allow this power to go unchecked or untrained would be a grave injustice on the part of the adults tasked to teach you the magical arts. And so, I must warn all of you."

He casts his eyes across the assembled students, and even Donald and Luke go quiet under his gaze.

"I understand this is a week of high spirits and... high jinks. But those of you who use your powers unwisely will not simply have to contend with the inconvenience of demerits or detentions. We will give serious thought as to whether you will be permitted to continue the practice of magic at all."

The silence in the gymnasium breaks, and there is a low hum as the students process what Professor Terrec has just said. If a young witch or wizard, wildseed or not, is no longer allowed to practice magic, es mind will be erased, and e'll be thrown out of the magical community for life. For someone like me, who has non-magical family to go to, that's one thing, but for someone like Ellen, who has abandoned her family, or Virginia, whose entire family is magical, that means something else entirely. The freshmen at the front of the room look bewildered; the remaining students look grim.

"And now," Professor Terrec says mildly, "please go on and enjoy your festivities." He leaves the lectern and walks from the gymnasium, looking just as placid as he had when he'd walked in.

The rest of the students are not so placid. The president of the senior class - a startlingly pretty girl from Butterfly Hall with blond and pink hair - wobbles to the lectern, and begins her explanation of Initiation Week. Instead of sounding full of boisterous good humor, as William had last year, she sounds shaky and uncertain. The freshmen, as they line up to receive their initiation handbooks, all look terrified. Even the ribbing the seniors give the freshmen as they circle to make their choices is half-hearted. As for me, I'm just grateful that I don't have to get up or do anything - my legs feel so wobbly and weak that I don't think I can stand.

Once the freshmen have been herded out of the gym by the seniors, Ahmed turns to me with a frown. "What have you got next?" he asks.

It takes me a moment to understand what he's asking. "Class? Uh." I have to flip through my schedule to remember - my mind has gone blank. "Blue," I say, feeling a sinking in my chest as I look at the penciled word.

"Me too," Ahmed says. "Wanna skip?"

I'm sorely tempted to say yes, but my mind flicks to the card pasted on my ceiling, and I clench my jaw. "Nope," I say. "He's gonna have to do better than that to scare me out of class." I stand, happy to find that my legs hold under me.

"He seemed kinda scary to me," mutters Ahmed, looking up at me from under his thick eyebrows.

"Trust me," I say, "he has _nothing_ on my late father-in-law."

* * *

_Our new teacher, Professor Terrec, got his share of love letters this week. So far he hasn't responded to any of them, but no one's giving up hope. Do you know him, by the way? Professor Yves Terrec. No big deal, but he seems kind of unusual, and I'm curious._

* * *

It's true that Professor Terrec's speech on Monday morning of Initiation Week did little to dampen the spirits of his many student admirers. After some debating on the first day, most Iris Academy students seem to have concluded that Professor Terrec wasn't saying anything that we hadn't been told since we first obtained magical powers, and so it wasn't a threat, not _really_.

Pastel in particular is completely devoted to our new professor, sitting in the front of every red and blue class I attend, raising her hand at every question, and beaming at even the slightest praise she receives for her correct answers. Professor Terrec, to his credit, seems not to notice Pastel's - or anyone's - attentions. He receives a scattering of love letters each day of the week - many of which, I'm amused to note, are written on the stationery that I'd managed to sell last Saturday. But at the start of each class, he pays no attention to the flurry of envelopes on his desk. He only sweeps the envelopes into a drawer and locks it, to the disappointment of many students - male, female, or otherwise. I'm not sure whether Professor Terrec reads the letters, or burns them, or what, but he certainly doesn't lose his temper over any of them.

Little by little, day by day, everyone's exuberance returns, and soon the seniors are reveling in their role as dictators of the freshman class. No one gets up the nerve to pull any stunts (besides delivery of sundry love letters) in Professor Terrec's classroom, but the hallways become a mad scene of freshman performing all sorts of absurd acts. The best one is when an unknown senior convinces three freshman girls to corner Donald Danson in the cafeteria and serenade him with a surprisingly adept a cappella rendition of "Be My Baby." A crowd quickly forms and soon is clapping along with the girls, who gain confidence and volume as the song continues. Donald turns a deep shade of aubergine, but is a good sport and applauds along with the rest of us once the song comes to an end. The song is the talk of the week, though I notice that Ellen seems prickly every time it's mentioned.

Not that I see a lot of Ellen, or Virginia. I'm swamped with work - trying not just to keep up but to race ahead in classes, picking out the food that the sophomores will contribute to Friday's picnic, and helping with the setup. And I get up early every morning to run. By the time Friday comes around, I'm able to run to the hairpin turn and back without having to stop and walk, though I still wheeze after I'm finished. Still, I can already tell that I'm getting stronger, little by little. And every time I run I feel a little bit better about school, too. By Friday morning, as I'm puffing my way back up the road, I can almost believe that Professor Terrec's strange speech on Monday was exactly what he'd claimed it to be - a warning for students' safety, nothing more. The campus, stretching before me in the sunrise, looks too pristine to harbor mysterious plots against the students.

 _Maybe Hieronymous is right_ , I think, jogging around the bend to the campus grounds. _Maybe I'm a little too obsessed with the Gothic. This isn't Northanger Academy, after all_.

* * *

_The Initiation Week picnic came off really well. The new class of freshmen seem to be enjoying themselves. I'm just relieved the week is over, and things can go back to whatever passes for normal around here._

* * *

After my Friday morning run, I just have time for a quick shower before I have to race outside to the vans that are carrying part of the senior class as well as the junior and sophomore student council members to the lakeside so that we can set up for the picnic. Minnie has somehow gotten Jacob a pass to come along with us, which is both an annoyance and a relief - they're so preoccupied with each other, I don't have to make any awkward small talk with either of them as we get our table set up. And it's easy for me to melt into the crowd of seniors once we're finished, helping with one job or another until it's time for the freshmen to arrive.

Last year, I remember having my blindfold taken off and feeling almost giddy with relief that the whole awful week was over, and I wouldn't have to be ordered around any more. That alone was cause for celebration, and I'd spent the day gleefully running around with Damien.

But when this year's crop of freshmen exit the vans, they seem oddly subdued. They cluster together in clumps, whispering together, not bothering to go for any of the food or looking for their seniors. The effect is so strange that Minnie forgets that she isn't speaking to me and tugs at the sleeve of my uniform.

"What's going on?" she whispers.

"I don't know," I whisper back. I look over my shoulder at Jacob, but he looks just as puzzled as Minnie.

The senior class president - Laurel, her name is - is in the middle of the the nearest clump of freshmen, having been part of the senior group who'd been in charge of blindfolding and herding them into the vans. Minnie, Jacob and I are too far away to hear what she says to them, but we are close enough to watch Laurel's smile drop at the sides but stay at the top, until it looks as though she's grimacing at something repulsive. When the freshmen start to shrink away from her, she drops the smile, but starts speaking to them in a low murmur, patting one or another of them on the shoulder from time to time. The other seniors who had traveled with the freshmen in the vans follow suit. A few of the seniors, and juniors who'd come to the park early to set up begin to drift over, following Laurel's lead, and soon Minnie does too.

I glance behind me at Jacob, but he hasn't moved. "Aren't you going with her?" I ask.

"Nah," Jacob says. "Minnie's better at that girly emotional stuff than me."

I turn so he can't see me roll my eyes in disgust.

We wait in silence until Minnie returns to our snack table, her face stark white.

"What is it?" I ask.

Minnie swallows and licks her lips. "Um," she says. "Well - you know that girl who sang to Donald on Wednesday? Who sang the lead part?"

"Yeah," I say. I didn't know her name, but I had seen the serenade. "She has a great voice."

"She had an mp3 player," Minnie says. "I guess Professor Potsdam warned her to get rid of it last week, and she told her roommate she had, but she just hid it. She was wildseed, so I guess she didn't really get it yet."

"Wait," I say, "she _was_ wildseed?"

"Yeah," says Minnie. "Professor Terrec expelled her."

" _What?_ " Jacob asks. "No warning? No demerits? Detention?"

Minnie shakes her head. "No nothing."

I stare at Minnie, flabbergasted. A sudden expulsion just for an mp3 player, which could have just as easily been taken away from the offending student. And the poor girl probably had no idea _why_ she wasn't allowed her music - even after a year at Iris I'm still fuzzy on exactly why we're not allowed to have technology at school, only that it's strictly forbidden. But expulsion?

"And that's not the worst part," Minnie says, interrupting my train of thought. "The worst part is? He did it in front of the entire freshmen class while they were waiting in the gym this morning. Just... told her she was expelled for the mp3 player and then wiped her mind, right there in the gym. She collapsed, and he picked her up and walked out like he was taking out a bag of trash."

Minnie's eyes are brimming with unshed tears, her lower lip trembling.

"Where was Professor Potsdam?" asks Jacob. "She didn't tell him to do all that - right?"

"I don't know," says Minnie. "The freshmen didn't say she was there, but-" she cuts off, twirling the ends of her hair so hard, I start to fear they'll snap. "Professor Terrec wouldn't just expel someone without getting her permission - would he?"

"Maybe we should ask her," I say.

Jacob turns to me with a frown. "We could try, I guess," he says, "but do you really think that would work? I mean, you know what she's like. You go to her with whatever, and she smiles and chirps at you, but she never really _does_ anything."

"I - yeah," I say, thinking of last year when I'd witnessed Minnie's ex, Kyo, threaten both Minnie and Jacob in the school courtyard. My first instinct was to find an adult - Kyo was acting so scary that I didn't think Minnie could deal with him on her own, or even with Jacob. So I told Professor Potsdam what had happened, but she had refused to intervene. This was, I'd thought at the time, a horrible thing to do, so I'd gone to Professor Grabiner instead. He, at least, had taken the threat seriously, and had put the fear of God - or, at least, the fear of Grabiner - into Kyo, who had left Minnie alone from then on. I begin to wonder now whether Jacob had gone to Professor Potsdam as well, and had gotten the same answer she had given me.

"I never thought I'd say this," Jacob says, "but I kind of wish Professor Grabiner was here."

"Yeah," I say under my breath. "No kidding."

* * *

_Thank you so much for the book, by the way. I love it. Though I think even you have to admit after the summer I had, I have a little justification for enjoying the Gothic. Don't worry, I'm not going around seeing skeletons in closets or fainting artfully in a swirl of nightgown or anything. Reading about architecture is probably the least melodramatic thing I could be doing - you should be grateful._

_I should sign off here - two weeks and you're probably wondering where your letter is already, right? Please write me back soon. And take care of yourself, okay?_

_Yours,_

_Eliza_

_P.S. All my hate to Mr. Lewis. Have you got rid of that guy yet?_

* * *

"Eliza, are you done yet? I want to go to bed," snaps Virginia. It's the first full sentence she's said to me all week, and she doesn't look happy to be talking to me.

"Five minutes," I say, trying and failing to disguise the defensiveness creeping into my voice.

Virginia doesn't say anything back, but rolls her eyes and makes a disgusted sound in the back of her throat. I ignore her.

I read over my letter again. It's perfect. Light and funny in tone, no indication that there's anything amiss. And almost everything I've written is a lie.

For a moment, I'm a little ashamed of myself - but then, if I were going to tell the truth, what would I write?

_Everything's horrible here, I've changed my mind, can I stay in London with you please?_

I can't do that. For one thing, I already made up my mind - it's too late to change it now. And for another, well, I can't even bring myself to consider how I would react if he said no.

 _And he would say no_ , I think. No because I'm too young, no because we're getting divorced in four months and he'll be glad to rid himself of the responsibility. And anyway, it's no good worrying him now. I'll talk to Professor Potsdam tomorrow and everything will be fine.

"I'm turning off the light," says Virginia.

"Fine," I mutter, and roll over on my bunk, folding the letter and putting it under my pillow so I won't crush it. _Initiation week. God._

What a mess this year's picnic turned out to be. The freshmen ate practically none of the food we gave them - Minnie and I had to pack up the rest to give to the cafeteria workers, who were able to serve it to the rest of the students at dinner. And to think, just last year, I was racing around, having fun with-

"Wait!" I say, remembering something.

Virginia, who's halfway to the light switch, whirls on me with an irritated frown as I jump from my bunk. "What?" she says.

"I just need to check something," I say, racing to my wardrobe without looking at her.

"I'm _really_ tired," Ellen joins in, sounding just as irate as Virginia.

"Just one minute!" I'm at the wardrobe now, and grabbing at my red suitcase, which I've stashed at the bottom. I unzip the top front pocket and fish inside - nothing. But when I open the second pocket, there it is - I feel it, hard, cold and smooth under my fingers, and pull it out.

It's a pocketknife - nothing too exciting, just a smooth blue enamel case with two fold-out blades enclosed within. Damien had given it to me at the start of last year's freshman picnic, in response to my love letter. He'd told me he'd had it since he was a boy, but had wanted me to have it now. I feel a little ashamed that I'd just put it away and forgotten about it.

"E _li_ za," Virginia says, sounding really pissed now.

"Yeah yeah," I say, slipping the pocketknife into the pocket of my school uniform hanging in the wardrobe. "Hit the light."

It's not easy, climbing up to my bunk in the dark, but I manage it.


	7. Chapter 7

I crouch on the ground, anchoring my hands into the dirt path, wriggling my fingers until they sink into the soft soil.

"Ready?" Ahmed calls from a nearby bench. I flex my feet, one firmly on the ground, and one propped against a convenient rock.

"Set..." Ahmed says, and I lean back into the rock, tensing the muscles in my arms, legs, stomach.

"Go!" Ahmed says, and I push off horizontally, almost as though I were swimming rather than running. It's a few strides before I'm fully vertical, and once I am, I concentrate on moving each part of me exactly right - knees pumping as high as I can get them, head steady and pointing straight ahead, arms close to my torso but moving easily with each stride.

Sprinting is different from other kinds of running - different moves, different posture, different focus. I'm not very good at it - my particular strength has always lain in middle distance running. A strong, fast start and a kick at the finish are important in 800 or 1000 meter races, but what really counts is how well you can push through the pain that sets in around the middle of the race - the tiny kernel of fire that kindles in the lungs, stealing your oxygen as it grows; the ache that laps up the thighs like the waves of a softly poisonous sea.

But I'm half in love with the _concept_ of sprinting - how the start is the most important thing, how you have to position yourself in order to allow your body to uncoil out of the block, as if you're the bullet in the starter pistol. How you have to maintain your form just so, in order to maximize your distance in so short a time. And most of all, I love how a well-run sprint seems to take me over what I think of as the pain barrier - as though I could run so fast that I could leave everything, even the sensations in my own body, behind. When I stop after a sprint, it all comes rushing back - the fatigue, the ache, the breathlessness - but for just a few seconds while I run, I feel as though part of me could catapult out of my body and fly away, leaving everything else behind forever.

A tree swims up in my vision, and I slow so as not to slam into it, reaching out my left hand to touch the trunk. I stumble to a stop, feeling all of those sensations flood back into my system, and look back at the bench Ahmed's sitting on.

"Okay," he says, peering at the stopwatch we borrowed from the gym - a rare piece of technology permitted at Iris, and thoroughly magic-proofed. "You clock in at seventeen-point-six seconds."

"Woo hoo!" I say, raising my arms and jogging back to Ahmed's bench, even though that isn't anywhere close to my best time for a hundred meter race, and further still from anything approaching championship levels. "And the gold goes to Eliza Moon!"

"Yeah yeah," Ahmed says. "National anthem plays, everybody cries from patriotism, confetti confetti." But he does toss one of his hands in the air and causes a shower of confetti-like sparks to rain down on me. I giggle, feeling a little self-conscious, but there's no one else around to see me goofing off. Everyone's at breakfast, which I'd convinced Ahmed to skip so that I could break in the running shoes that came in this morning's post.

"Okay, Chariots of Fire," Ahmed says, "you said if I timed you running, we could do something fun today."

"Yup," I say. I thought we could review white magic in the library."

Ahmed groans. "You said _fun_."

"That _is_ fun," I retort. Well okay, it's not _that_ fun, but I'd skipped white magic that week to load up on red, blue, and green for yesterday's exam, and now I'm feeling anxious about falling behind.

"Not library fun," says Ahmed, " _fun_ fun. And anyway, you said you'd aced the exam yesterday. We should take a break."

I consider this. Yes, I had aced yesterday's exam - the first one of the year - by luring the hive of adolescent manticores that had been roaming the maze into following me, and then trapping them into a magic-buffering cage I'd formed from the stone walls and floor of the dungeon with a mix of blue and black magic. I hadn't been able to completely prevent the creatures from casting spells through the cage, and only barely managed to dodge the rain of spiny, poisonous barbs they'd thrown at me, but I'd made it out of the dungeon unscathed. And it was a pretty good win, so I thought. I hoped the Oxford admissions board would agree with me.

But I'd had another reason to ace my exam that didn't relate to my academic ambitions - Professor Potsdam. It's been two weeks since the Initiation picnic, and I haven't had the chance to say a single word to her, much less ask her about Professor Terrec's abrupt expulsion of the freshman wildseed girl. I'd seen her sweeping through the halls, but even when I'd sprinted after her, I was never quick enough to catch up. I'd tried going to her office, only to be told by her secretary - a soft-spoken young man with curling green feathers instead of hair - that she was busy, and not even able to make an appointment with me.

That left only two options that I could think of. The first was to nail the exam on the last Friday in September. Whenever I'd excelled at an exam last year, Professor Potsdam always showed up to congratulate me, and award me however many merits she thought I deserved. I figured that as long as I excelled at the test, she couldn't dodge me, but of course, I'd been wrong. When I'd emerged from the dungeon, flushed with exertion and victory, it wasn't Professor Potsdam waiting for me outside - it was Professor Terrec.

"Ah," he'd said, noting something on a clipboard he held in his hands. "Miss Moon. I am gratified to see that you have been paying attention in my classes. More work needed on your warding spells, however."

"Yes, sir," I'd said, unable to hide my disappointment.

Professor Terrec had given me a curious look. "Is there anything else, Miss Moon?"

"Oh - no sir. Thank you, sir," I'd said before trudging off. No Professor Potsdam and no merits. Just my luck.

"C'mon Eliza," Ahmed says, interrupting my train of thought. "If you shower really quick we can make the vans to the mall."

"The mall?" I repeat. "The mall is super boring though."

"Less boring than the library," Ahmed says. "They've got a new coffee shop where the bakery used to be - it's a chain, so that's lame, but I'll buy you a fancy coffee drink." His voice takes on a wheedling tone at this last.

"Well-ll," I start, uncertain. Ahmed did skip breakfast and time me, so if the mall is his idea of fun…

"I'm _sick_ of being cooped up at school all the time," Ahmed says, with sudden vehemence. "Seriously, Eliza, if I don't get out of here in another hour I'm gonna start setting stuff on fire just for the funsies."

"Well, I guess," I say. The last thing I need is for Professor Terrec finding out I was party to boredom-related arson. "Should we ask Suki to come?"

"She's got detention," Ahmed says. "She tried to send Chester in to negotiate with the manticores." He gives a half-shrug. "It didn't work. Anyway, we don't always have to hang out with Suki."

"I just feel bad for her," I say. "She's one of us. Losers' Club solidarity, right?"

"Solidarity doesn't have to mean inseparability," Ahmed says. "Anyway, she was lucky. I heard from my roommate Orrin that another five freshmen got expelled for not getting through the exam. And two juniors, too."

"How does Orrin know?" I ask, although I'd heard Ellen mutter something to Virginia about it last night.

"He failed and got detention too," Ahmed replies. "He says he nearly got expelled himself, but I don't buy it. All the students that got kicked out were wildseed, and Orrin's family is magic."

"Huh," I say, not able to come up with anything else. There had been one or two freshmen in my class last year who'd been expelled during the first few weeks, most of them wildseeds, kicked out for the crime of not attending their classes. But I can't remember anyone getting thrown out of school just for failing the first exam. "Your sure Orrin's right about that? Maybe they just weren't going to class."

Ahmed shrugs. "He could be exaggerating I guess, but… I dunno. I don't put it past Professor Terrec, do you?"

"Not really," I say, and then am suddenly filled with the urge to get off campus as quickly as possible. "Okay," I say. "Let's go to the mall."

"I knew you'd see the light," Ahmed says, grinning. "Now go take a shower; I'm not getting seen in public with Sweaterella."

I give Ahmed a light punch on the arm, and start jogging in the direction of Horse Hall.

I haven't been to the mall since last term, and it's as tiny and dull as ever, new coffee shop notwithstanding. Ahmed and I spend most of the morning browsing the magic shop; peering at the glass case that houses the sextants and one very complicated looking - not to mention expensive - astrolabe. We test out a few of the wands on display, shooting sparks and ribbons of light out of the tips, until Mr. Abelard, the shopkeeper, gives us a side-eye, and we rush to put them back, snickering and nudging each other. We end our browsing by trying on some of the magical glasses on one shelf, peering at the effect in a tiny mirror on the wall.

"I like them!" Ahmed says, scrutinizing me through a pair of wild, spiral-lensed spectacles. "Very sophisticated. I bet your husband would approve."

This makes me frown a little, and I take off the half-rim glasses I'd been trying on and put them back on the shelf. I'd had another letter from my husband this morning, and while I'm happy that he's dedicated in terms of the quantity of his letters, this one is as brief and impersonal as the first. It's as though I'm just an afterthought, a task to get done, an irritant to be fobbed off with a few words tossed in her direction. It makes me feel as though he doesn't even see me as his wife any more, and a pair of spectacles, however sophisticated, isn't going to help.

"Come on - they're only ten dollars," Ahmed says, putting his own pair back. "Aren't you going to get them?"

"Nah," I say. "I have to save up my money - elections are in two weeks."

"I can't believe you're running for treasurer again," Ahmed says. "Getting up that early has got to be some nefarious form of torture."

"I think I'm getting used to it," I say, which is partially true. And besides, now that I'm running again, getting up early has become even more of a habit.

But even with that consideration, I have my own reasons to want to continue in my role of treasurer. The first is that my husband's letters are coming into the school in blank envelopes, revealing that I'm their intended recipient only when I touch them. How they get into the school without an address, I have no idea, but it's very convenient in keeping gossip to a minimum. I don't want to have to tell the next treasurer to send all blank envelopes to me - or worse, to have to explain to Professor Grabiner that he'll have to write my name in actual ink now that I've lost my position.

And part of me thinks - well, hopes, I guess - that if I continue on as treasurer I might manage to get onto Professor Terrec's good side. Hieronymous was, after all, initially impressed with my work ethic in the student council; he'd given me (well, Minnie anyway) his first real compliment after our November fundraiser, when my candles had been bestsellers. If I can show Professor Terrec that I'm a hard worker, he'll have to come around.

_Won't he?_

"Well, it's all a dumb popularity contest anyway," Ahmed grouses, and he does have a point. If there's one thing I'm not this year, it's popular. Still, I'd managed to beat out the very well-known Jacob Blaising for the position last year, and that has to count for something. Who knows, maybe whoever runs would be even more of an outcast than me - though the only two people I can think of that fit that description are Ahmed and Suki. And know for a fact that Suki's going to run against Minnie for president again. Apparently the spirits have been insistent.

"I know I'll win this year - right, Chester?" Suki had said on Friday morning at breakfast, and whatever Chester had said in return, neither Ahmed nor I'd had the heart to contradict her.

"Coffee?" Ahmed suggests, and I'm more than ready to acquiesce.

We wind our way down the halls from the magic shop to the café, dodging fellow Iris Academy students as we go. When we arrive, the café tables are mostly peopled with Iris students - including Virginia, Ellen and Pastel at one table sharing an enormous post-exam cookie. It's just like the end of exams last year - only then, I'd been invited to share the celebration.

I try not to look at them as I slide into place in line, but I think Ahmed sees what's going on. He says, casually, "Y'know, it's gonna be, like, the last nice weekend out. Let's sit outside."

"Yeah," I say, grateful for the excuse.

Ahmed buys us both fancy drinks with whipped cream on top - his is some sort of pumpkin spice concoction with espresso; mine is called a chai latte, which I choose in remembrance of my last year's not-a-date with Professor Grabiner. Ahmed also buys us two pumpkin scones, and we take our drinks and pastries to a bench outside the mall's entrance.

Both the drinks and the scones are disappointing. My chai tastes more like sugar than spice, and the oily, melting cream on top does nothing to help matters. The scone is both the flavor and consistency of pumpkin spiced cardboard. I give up trying to eat it after a few bites, and crumble it in its bag instead.

"There's this really expensive coffee shop opened up in the Village?" Ahmed says after a few minutes of sipping in silence. "And the fanciest, most expensive coffee they have is this stuff that's from beans gathered out of civet cat shit."

I consider this. "Have you tried it?" I ask. Ahmed doesn't talk much about his family or home life, but from what I've been able to glean, they live in Manhattan and have some pretty serious money. Drinking fancy cat shit coffee might be one of those things rich New Yorkers do, for all I know.

"Nah," he says. "Just the idea grosses me out. But this?" He holds up his pumpkin coffee. "This _tastes_ like it's been gathered out of civet cat shit."

I burst into giggles at this assessment. "Yeah, my chai is pretty grim too," I say. "Have you been to The Glen? Their chai is really good." I nod in the direction of the invisible restaurant.

"Yeah," Ahmed says. "That's where I went on my first date with Damien."

I pause, unsure of how to proceed. This is the first time Ahmed has mentioned Damien to me by name. Should I act surprised? Pretend I hadn't heard the nasty, gossipy story that Jacob had told me? Or act like I know all about it?

In the end, I decide to act casual. "Oh yeah? How did you like it?"

"Really good," Ahmed replies. "Reminded me of those modernist cuisine places, like wd~50 or Ko. But with magic, not science. What did you think of it?"

"Pretty good," I say noncommittally. I'd only had the chai when I'd gone with Professor Grabiner, but had been treated to a meal there on my wedding day by Professor Potsdam. I'd been so mortified, though, I'd barely tasted the food that had been set in front of me, so I decide to stick with what I can remember. "Oh - and the dessert, those berries? Those were good."

"Oh, yeah. Those," Ahmed says, and with that, we seem to exhaust The Glen as a conversation topic.

I take another sip of my chai and grimace - it's getting cold, which does nothing to improve its flavor. "So," I say with the careful deliberation of someone about to step into unfamiliar territory, "how did you and Damien meet?"

Ahmed doesn't answer at first, but when I get up the courage to glance over at him, he doesn't seem angry. He seems embarrassed, but also a little pleased. I consider that maybe this is the first time someone's asked him about Damien without being disapproving or judgy.

 _I know how that feels_ , I think, and even if I don't much like Damien, I can certainly feel sympathetic to Ahmed.

"At the Dark Dance, last year," Ahmed says, and I feel a little jolt of surprise go up my spine. If that's true, the two of them met right after I'd told Damien that we couldn't be friends, and he'd stormed off.

"Really?" I say, trying to sound casual. "So did he ask you to the dance with him or something?"

"Nope," says Ahmed. "I mean, the Dark Dance was a total nightmare, right? All those people in one room, and no one can see anything 'cos it's dark, and everyone jostling into each other, and you don't know is it your roommate or some creature from the black reaches of cosmic nothingness?"

Actually, I'd thought the dark dance had been daringly fun, but I decide not to contradict Ahmed's description of the event.

"I had to get out of there just to catch my breath," Ahmed continues, "and I saw _him_ ducking into the classroom across the hall. It was dark, but I mean, you could tell it was him. The wings."

I nod. Even in the dark, Damien's silhouette would be pretty distinctive.

"So I stand there for a second, like, 'what should I do?' I mean, I couldn't take my eyes off him the first time I saw him. That skin? That hair? Utterly gorgeous."

I suspect that Ahmed and I have some very different ideas about what constitutes "utterly gorgeous," but I can't deny that Damien was - is - quite captivating.

"So I go in after him, and before I can really stop and think what I'm doing, I say to him, like, 'you okay?' And he whips around but when he sees me, he just smiles."

"So was he okay?" I ask.

Ahmed shrugs. "He said he was just upset - some bitchy girl he liked had been really rude to him after he asked her if they could be friends."

I feel a chill go through me, as though I'd been doused with a bucket of ice water. A girl? That he'd _liked_? It couldn't be - he'd told me that he didn't like me _that_ way, that he'd just wanted us to be friends. But then, what if he'd said it to prevent me from - well, doing exactly what I'd done? Rejecting him?

"Did he say who it was?" I ask, hoping my voice sounds steady.

"Hm-mm," says Ahmed, shaking his head. "I think it was that senior though, Angela Kirsch? I guess they used to date or something."

"Oh yeah!" I say, knowing that I'm agreeing a little too quickly, and not caring. "She was the worst."

"I _know_ ," Ahmed says. "So anyway, without even thinking I just blurt out 'can I kiss you and make it all better?'" He laughs, as though even now he can't believe his own boldness.

"So what did he say?"

"He just stood there without saying anything for a minute, and I was like 'oh my God, I just sexually harassed a senior, I'm gonna get my ass handed to me.' But he didn't do anything. And then just when I was about to completely lose it and run back to my room, he said 'no... But you can dance with me.'" Ahmed shakes his head. "And he just grabs my hand and pulls me in, and we just start slow dancing right there, no music or anything. It was for real the most romantic thing that had ever happened to me in my whole life."

I have no trouble believing it. As he says these things, Ahmed seems to glow, radiant, and I gaze at him, awestruck, until I remember Jacob's story. How Damien hurt Ahmed so badly he'd had to go to the infirmary for a night.

Ahmed turns to me, and notices my expression. "What's wrong?" he says, frowning.

"Oh - nothing," I say, hurriedly looking down at my chai cup. "I just-" I flounder for something to say. "I mean, you're in love with Damien, right?"

"Ye-es," says Ahmed, cautious.

"How do you know?" I ask. "How do you know when you're in love? And don't say 'you just know,' because that is a total cliché."

"Ah," says Ahmed. "Husband trouble?"

Now it's my turn to feel embarrassed. "Not exactly," I say. "Just trying to figure some stuff out."

Ahmed takes a sip of his drink, pulls a face, and pours the rest of the coffee out onto a bedraggled-looking flower bed by our bench. After a longish silence, he says "here's what I think. When I'm around other people, I feel like I have to put on this huge elaborate act around them. Not just because of the magic stuff, I mean, but so I can look like a normal person, not a complete weirdo loser."

"Even around your family?" I ask.

" _Especially_ around my family," he replies. "I'm the freak of the family and that's _before_ I found out I could do magic. All my brothers and sisters went to Trinity - well, one of my sisters went to Chapin, but still, right? And here I am, the youngest, in this backwater school in Vermont where they don't even really know what I study? My Dad thinks it's an art school, and I think he'd be less disappointed in me if he actually knew about the magic!" He gives a hard, bitter little laugh. "He has this master plan that all of us are either going to go into investment banking, and have huge families and live in New York or Dubai, and when he retires he'll go around and stay with each of us like he's friggin' King Lear. And they all buy it! Like, my oldest brother? He's only twenty-five, he's at Goldman Sachs, and he already has two kids and another coming. And all of us are supposed to do exactly the same thing. I think the most rebellion they've considered is if one of us decides to go to medical school."

"So," I venture, wondering if there's a good way to ask this, "they don't know that you-"

"Date guys?" Ahmed asks, gloomily.

"Well, I was going to say 'date demons,' but..." I say, but the joke is a lame one, and Ahmed doesn't laugh. He crumples his empty coffee cup in his hands, pops the crumples out, and crumples it again.

"Just my mom, and only kinda," he says, finally. "I was helping her with dinner over winter break last year, and I out of nowhere asked her what she would do if I brought a girl home from school next break. She got this huge grin on her face, and she said 'I'd feed her!' So then I asked what she'd do if I brought a guy home instead? And she goes quiet for a real long time, but then says 'I would feed him,' without looking at me. We didn't talk about it after that."

"That doesn't sound so bad, though," I say. "It wasn't 'throw you out of the house and never speak to you again.'"

"Yeah, nice consolation prize," says Ahmed, and I look away, abashed. "Anyway," he continues, "she'd take my Dad's side if it came down to it; she always does. And then school. Like, all that talk about love in all its forms, and even the student council president likes guys, I thought maybe I found a place where I wouldn't be treated like some freak because of who I love." He crumples the coffee cup again. "But I hadn't. Not because I picked a guy, but because I picked the _wrong_ guy."

Thinking about it from Ahmed's perspective, it does all seem unfair. And after all, aren't we sort of in the same position?

"Anyway, the point of all that is, I have to be someone else in front of everyone. School, home, doesn't matter. But when I'm with Damien? I can be myself. The _most_ myself. And I know he loves me - not in spite of who I am, but _because_ of who I am. And that's how you know you're in love. I guess."

_But he hurt you._

The thought shoots through my head, and I only just have the wherewithal to keep it from exiting my mouth. The words hang between us in the air, unspoken and heavy, as though full of some unidentifiable liquid.

"So," Ahmed says, breaking the awkward silence. "I didn't mean to rant like that. I guess I just needed to vent."

"No problem," I say. "Thanks for telling me. You gave me some stuff to think about."

"Well just remember who's the font of all your wisdom when you're living it up with your professor in some rich person château. I expect an invite for the summer."

I smirk at this. "No châteaus in my near future, just divorce. And who knows if I'll even see him again after that. He's not making me feel very... wanted."

Ahmed pauses as though to consider this. "Well, maybe you should make him feel wanted."

"I think that would just weird him out," I say.

Ahmed shrugs. "Worth a shot."

"Thanks, font of all wisdom. Wanna head back? I bet we could get some white magic in before dinner."

Ahmed groans, but he gets up and heads toward the vans without further protest.

I don't manage much white magic before dinner. Ahmed gives me the slip - writing a letter home, he says, but I bet it's to Damien - so I wind up in the library by myself, zoning out over my textbook. And at dinner, when Ahmed's teasing Suki and helping her mend the scratch marks and scuffs inflicted upon Chester in his first attempt at interspecies diplomacy, I keep spacing out.

All I can think of is how to reconcile my sadness at Ahmed's story of isolation with what I know happened between him and Damien. I know Damien's bad news, but how do you tell that to someone who's in love - and who seems to need that love so badly?

The only thing I can think of is the time I'd gone to Professor Grabiner about Minnie and Kyo - but that had been different. Minnie hadn't been in love with Kyo, she just hadn't known how to get away from him. But then, Kyo had never actually hurt Minnie that I knew of - he'd just made threats.

All through getting ready for, then getting into bed, I wrestle with the thought that I ought to be doing something. I'm Ahmed's friend, and I should try to help him. But the whole thing seems like too much for me to handle - I need help from someone who knows what to do. But now that Hieronymous is gone, there's no one here who will help me - even Professor Potsdam is ignoring me.

But it's then that I remember what I'm supposed to do next week - my second plan to get to Professor Potsdam. In order to run for class treasurer, I have to tell Professor Potsdam that I plan to run - and it has to be her, not any other teacher in the school. She can't refuse to talk to me then, and I can ask her about Damien then - and about Professor Terrec.

Comforted, I feel myself start to drift off, snatches of the words I want to say to Professor Potsdam drifting through my head. But in my dream that night, I'm chasing Ahmed through the Iris Academy dungeon, shouting the four words I couldn't say to him today. But Ahmed doesn't turn around. He doesn't hear.


	8. Chapter 8

Friday afternoon finds me waiting in the anteroom of Professor Potsdam's office. I'm not alone - there's a whole group of students waiting to tell Professor Potsdam their intention to run for student council this year.

I'm sitting next to Suki, and I hope, rather than believe, that I've managed to convince her that Chester will not make a good potential running mate in the election. All through lunch Ahmed called her "Little Caligula" until she threw a piece of dry cornbread at his head.

I look around the room, trying to recognize which students are fellow sophomores - and who might be grappling for my position. No Virginia and no Ellen - thank goodness, as I don't think I could handle running against either of them. I do see Jacob and Minnie in one corner, though. Minnie must be running for President again, and as for Jacob - well, I beat him last year, didn't I? And anyway, I remind myself, I have more important things to think about right now than school politics.

I sidle over to where Jacob and Minnie are whispering together. "Hey," I say, "have either of you gotten to talk to Professor Potsdam about-"

But Jacob turns on me, looking irritated at having been interrupted. "Oh _hey_ Eliza," he says, affecting a casual drawl. "Running for treasurer again?" He smirks. "Good luck."

"Same to you," I snap, all thoughts of our Initiation picnic camaraderie vanishing. "Feel like getting your ass kicked again this year?"

Jacob scoffs. "Hardly," he says. "I'm not running for treasurer, I'm running for secretary."

This throws me, and I can't think of any clever retorts. "For what?"

Minnie chimes in. "Sophomores have more responsibility, so we get another position. And then juniors get a vice president."

"Oh," I say. It makes sense, I guess.

"But if you didn't even know _that_ , I mean, I just wonder how well you'll handle all those responsibilities this year," Jacob says. Even Minnie looks like she's trying to keep from giggling at this, and I feel a sudden rush of rage. Minnie knows full well that all I knew about student council responsibilities were what she and Professor Grabiner had told me - and Minnie had gotten very flaky near the end of the year.

"Oh, I don't know," I say. "Considering I handled my responsibilities _and_ the president's last year, I think I'll do just fine."

This stops both Minnie and Jacob cold; Jacob scowling, and Minnie looking as shocked as if I'd slapped her. I hadn't meant to be so mean, and I open my mouth to try to take it back, when I'm interrupted by a voice behind me, full of false metallic sweetness.

"Hi E _li_ za!"

I don't have to turn around to know it's Pastel, but I do turn. "What?"

"Running for treasurer again?" she asks, but doesn't wait for me to answer before continuing. "I just wasn't sure why you would even bother this year now that Professor Grabiner isn't here."

"What do you mean?" I ask.

Pastel giggles. "Oh," she says, "we all know that's why you ran last year. 'I thought I could benefit from your wisdom, _sir_ ,'" she says, putting on a mock-simpering voice. Behind me, both Minnie and Jacob burst out laughing.

I open my mouth, but before I can say anything, Pastel coos "does he like it when you call him _sir_?" There's a notable increase in the pitch and hysteria in the laughter behind me. So instead of retorting, I stalk off, pushing past Pastel to where I was sitting with Suki before. "Good _lu_ -uck!" sings Pastel to my back.

I sit, cheeks burning, listening to the laughter. _I knew William told Virginia about that election but I can't believe he - or she - told_ Pastel. _I hate this stupid school, I could be in London right now_.

"Do me a favor," I mutter to Suki. "Figure out a way to get Chester up to Godzilla-size and set him loose."

Suki beams at me. "I've been trying to do that all week!" she says brightly.

This does nothing to cheer me up. I rest my chin in my hands. _I_ hate _this school. I hate the students, I hate the teachers, I hate the classes, but most of all I hate-_

Professor Potsdam sticks her head out of the door to her office. "Eliza!" she says. "Come in, dear!"

I drag myself out of my chair and slink toward Professor Potsdam, trying to ignore the fresh snickers that erupt behind my back.

Once the door is safely closed behind us, Professor Potsdam is all brisk business. "Now gosling," she says, "which position will you run for this year?"

I consider telling her to forget it, and backing out of the election altogether. It takes most of my courage to come out and say "treasurer, ma'am."

"Marvelous!" she says, noting this down. "Now, please let Tolliver - my secretary - know what you'd like to order for your campaign, and drop the money off with him by tomorrow, and you'll be all set."

"But," I say, "Isn't Professor Terrec going to talk to me about my campaign?"

"Oh, bless you dear, no," Professor Potsdam says. "You're old hat at this now! Assistance is only for freshmen and first-time campaigners. Yves will be helping Ms. Rao run for treasurer this year."

For a moment I'm shocked - and then I'm furious. _That little hypocrite._ All that mockery about running for school office just to get to Professor Grabiner - and she's doing the same to get to Professor Terrec. I think of her fawning over him in the front row, waving her hand in the air, wings trembling, and I'm almost paralyzed with disgust.

"Now if there isn't anything else," Professor Potsdam says, scribbling something in her notebook.

"Actually, there is," I say, and before I can lose my courage, I blurt "Did you tell Professor Terrec to expel that girl?"

"Hmm?" Professor Potsdam says absently, as though I'd asked her a question about the weather and she hadn't quite heard.

"That freshman girl, with the voice," I persist. "Who had the mp3 player. And all those students after the exam."

"Ah," Professor Potsdam says. "I see you've been listening to the freshman gossip."

I flush. There's something about the way she says it that makes me feel as though I'm the one being careless about my fellow students. "But-" I start, but Professor Potsdam interrupts me.

"I did not tell him to expel those students," she says. "Yves performed those actions under his own authority."

" _What_ authority?" I say. "You're the headmistress!"

Professor Potsdam looks up at me, and she isn't smiling. "That is true. And Yves has, I think, already told you what he is, if you were listening."

"He said he was here for our safety," I venture, "because the council - he's from the council?"

Professor Potsdam gives me a small smile, but it isn't a cheerful one. She almost looks as though she's sorry for me that it took me so long to figure this out. "And I'm afraid," she says, "that while I certainly do have a great deal of authority over this school, it is the council that has authority over me."

"But-" I protest, sputtering, "he can't just be allowed to terrify all the freshmen-"

"Oh, I think Yves feels that a little healthy terror is good for all the students here," Professor Potsdam breezes. "The practice of magic is quite a dangerous one - as you know full well. Our job is not only to teach the use of magic, but to instill in our students the proper respect for its power. But I don't think this is anything new to you."

Professor Potsdam is right - this isn't new. It's the conversation I'd had with Hieronymous, that weekend after he'd threatened me with the dungeons, because he'd thought I had told everyone about our marriage. He'd admitted to me that he had been trying to scare me, but more, that he tried to scare all of his students, because that was the only way they'd respect what magic can do.

But even so, this is different. Hieronymous had been trying to _keep_ me from getting expelled, not trying to make it happen. And even if he'd had a special incentive to protect me, he dealt with Donald's pranks, with Suki's bizarre take on exams, and even with Kyo when he got legitimately scary, with reasonable responses - not automatic expulsion.

"Don't you think that was a little disproportionate?" I ask. "With that freshman girl - it was just an mp3 player. And those other freshmen, it was only their first exam! Don't you think they deserve another chance?"

"Whether I think so or not, it isn't up to me to decide," Professor Potsdam says. "And it's over and done with, at any rate."

My shoulders slump and I only just keep myself from heaving an audible sigh. There would be no help from Professor Potsdam - not about Professor Terrec, and not about Damien either. I stand to leave, trying to muster a bit of dignity in my retreat.

"Eliza," Professor Potsdam says behind me. I'm feeling so frustrated that I'm tempted to just walk out of the office, but there's something in her voice - an edge to it - that makes me turn around.

"I should be very careful of Yves, if I were you," she says.

"Why's that?" I ask, my voice coming out sullen and defiant.

Professor Potsdam has dropped her cheerful smile. "I believe I once told you that you're no longer gambling with only your own life. This will remain true until you are divorced, and I suggest that you keep it in mind."

I consider this. I know she means Hieronymous, because although he'd only married me to protect me from the manus, now that he's made the promise, he has to keep it for a year and a day. If I'm expelled before I can get divorced, I lose my magic, my marriage, and my protection - but then, what happens to Hieronymous?

With a sinking sensation, I realize - what happens is, Hieronymous loses his own magic. His mind would get wiped, his entire life as he once knew it would be gone. Just thinking about that prospect, and the fact that it could be my fault, makes me suddenly nauseated.

"Professor Terrec wouldn't just expel me," I say to Professor Potsdam. "Not if he knows what would happen to Hieronymous if-"

"Oh, do you think so?" Professor Potsdam says blandly. "Confidence is such a fine thing, and it does come so easily when one is young."

Tiny tendrils of horror seem to anchor themselves in my arms, my shoulders, my stomach. "But you couldn't just let him-"

"I think I've made it quite clear that I have no authority over Yves' actions," Professor Potsdam says.

"Then it should be Hieronymous," I say, and it comes out in a squeak, higher than my normal voice. "He promised to protect me - if you can't, then _he_ should! He should be here!"

I seem to recall that you were given that choice," Professor Potsdam says, still unfazed. "Now that you have made it, you'll have to endure its consequences. Hieronymous isn't the only one who's made a vow, you know," she continues. "Do try to remember that. Now," she says, her familiar cheerful smile returning, and transforming her face, "If you'll just send Ms. Sato in when you go out?"

Exiting Professor Potsdam's office is like walking through a deep mist. I can barely see my surroundings, and any sounds I manage to hear are thick, syrupy, too low. Even my own voice, curtly telling Suki to go in, sounds elongated, stretched, as though I'm speaking in slow motion.

I had planned on going to the library after talking to Professor Potsdam, but I find myself veering out the doors and into the courtyard instead. There's a breeze in the air today - I'd felt it during this morning's run. It feels oily on my skin, like the fetid breath of someone dying. I settle on a bench, staring at a decaying plot of posies and try to think.

Have I made the wrong decision to come back to the US? It hadn't felt wrong, that night in Northumberland, when I'd told Hieronymous that I was going back to Iris Academy. It had felt right because it was the difficult decision - the one I didn't want to make. Like food - the worse it tastes, the better it is for you - I had chosen based on what my instinct had told me was the Right Thing to Do.

But what if I'd been wrong? What if my deprivation has no purpose - what if I'm doing some kind of _harm_ by being here, instead of with my husband?

 _Hieronymous isn't the only one who's made a vow_ , Professor Potsdam had said. She's right - I've made a vow too, and I think back to the day of my wedding.

The dungeons, lit only by sputtering candles, the stone walls lichen-covered and damp. My disappointment, bordering on despair, at realizing that my wedding would take place in this dark, secret place, when in my (admittedly, not very frequent) wedding daydreams, I had always pictured sunlight, fresh air, and someone who loved me. His sudden, striking appearance in wedding robes, more colorful than anything I'd ever seen him wear before - or since. The basket, its ribbons crossed over our hands as we gripped the handle. He'd promised me his wisdom and his protection, and I had promised him... I had promised him...

 _Kindness!_ I remember suddenly. _I promised my kindness and my courage._

Thinking about it now, it seems like some horrible joke. After how nasty I'd been to Minnie today, after I'd wished for Chester to be set loose to Godzilla the school - kindness from me? You might as well ask for water from a rock.

Then again, I'd promised my courage, and I think I can safely say I've given that in spades. Hadn't I gone to Hieronymous with my worries about Kyo when no one, not even cocky Jacob Blaising, would dare? Hadn't I taken on Mr. Lewis and Aloysius - Isolde - Grabiner at the cost of my own life?

 _Fine,_ I think. _Maybe I can't be kind. But I can sure as hell be brave._

I've spent so much time fantasizing about what Hieronymous would do if he here here, but I haven't considered what he'd do about Professor Terrec. I try to consider it now - how would he react at the news of the wildseed girl's expulsion? I imagine him pacing his rooms, furious, spitting multisyllabic invectives - because after all, wasn't Professor Terrec's action exactly the opposite of what Hieronymous had tried to do in all his years at Iris Academy? He'd spent his time trying to protect students - to instill respect for magic, yes, but also to make sure that they received their education. He would never have approved of expelling someone without even giving them a chance. And, I realize with a sinking sensation in my gut, he wouldn't just sit by and watch as Professor Terrec went around expelling whomever he pleased. Just like with Kyo, Hieronymous wouldn't act like Professor Potsdam, waiting for someone else to take action. Hieronymous would _do_ something about it. And if he's not here to do it…

"Then it has to be me," I half-whisper to myself.

My brain immediately rebels against the thought. _No, it can't be me. I'm just a student, I could get detention, get expelled._ But somehow, none of those excuses quite wash in the face of my remembered vow. _You promised_ , I think. _You promised to be brave._

And that's when I get a sudden idea. It'll take some planning, and some help, but if I can pull it off, then maybe I can show Professor Terrec that I'm willing to stand up to his authority while ensuring that I can keep my place both in school, and in the magical community itself. As for help, I think I know just the person who'd be willing to lend a hand. I hop off my bench, and dash back to the student buildings, heading straight to Toad Hall.

Ahmed's incredulous about my idea at first, but I can tell his interest is piqued. By the time I finish telling him what I mean to do, he's nodding along with me.

"Okay," he says, "I'll help. But on one condition."

I'm too relieved to say anything but "sure!"

He smiles his triumph. "I get to pick your campaign name and order your supplies."

"Okay, I guess," I say, a little taken aback. "What did you have in mind?"

"You'll find out on Tuesday."

"I dunno..." I say.

"C'mon, trust me," Ahmed says. "What were you last year, the Dragon?'"

"Yeah," I say. "Professor Grabiner said it was familiar and traditional or something."

"Well it doesn't suit you," Ahmed replies. "This year, we're going for meaningful and original."

"I guess." I'd only decided on 'The Dragon' because I was so intimidated by Professor Grabiner's presence, I couldn't think of anything creative, which now seems like a terrible excuse. "Okay," I say. "name and supplies are up to you."

"All right!" Ahmed says. "Meet me in the courtyard on Tuesday afternoon - I wanna have everything set up for when you get there." His grin is almost wicked, and I wonder if I've made the right decision, handing this part of my campaign over. But I've made my choice, so I give Ahmed a fistful of five dollar bills - my allowance up to this point in the year - and tell him to go for it.

I struggle with impatience all through Monday and Tuesday's classes. Ahmed is nowhere to be found - he told me at breakfast he had gym on both days, but I think he probably skipped classes to set up. By the time red magic class is finished, I can hardly contain myself, and I race to the courtyard.

Most of the campaigning students are still in the middle of setting up their tables, but mine is fully finished. I skid to a halt in front of it, digging my heels into the grass as my jaw drops in disbelief. Two posters flank the table, on which are neatly arranged badges. A huge banner hangs above everything - midnight blue with letters in silver script that read "Eliza Moon - the North Star."

The posters bear the same script, along with a logo of a crescent moon holding a seven pointed star in its tines. The badges, too, are moon and star shaped, made of shimmery silver paper with dark blue lettering that reads "Vote Eliza!"

"Oh my God, Ahmed!" I squeak.

Ahmed, who had stationed himself behind the table, steps out to me to survey the table. "Whaddaya think?" he asks, a little shyly.

"It's _spectacular_ ," I breathe. "The North Star - I love it!"

"I thought it implies a nice sense of constancy," Ahmed muses beside me. "Eliza Moon, keeping her head while all about her are losing theirs and blaming it on her."

"It's perfect," I agree, though secretly thinking that I can do without the "blaming it on me" part.

"Did you see Pastel's table yet?" Ahmed asks. "She's the 'Crystal Rose.' Everything pink. I mean, in a way it's smart, it's sort of her signature color, but - and I'm not saying this isn't completely immature and dumb - there's a lot of guys who won't want to wear pink rose badges on their uniforms."

"We'd better get them some silver moons, then," I say with a grin, and both of us step behind the table to start campaigning the students who begin to stream out of the school doors.

But Ahmed's real surprise comes on Wednesday afternoon. I spent most of it racing through the halls, putting up posters where I can find a space. When I get outside for courtyard time, I find my table piled high - not with badges, but with rows of cupcakes. They're vanilla with big silver crescent moon ornaments made of chocolate, and tiny silver star-shaped sprinkles nestled in folds of fluffy white icing.

"Ahmed!" I shout, too shocked to be pleased. I remember seeing the price list for personalized cupcakes last year, and they're almost prohibitively expensive. "How the hell could you afford these?"

Ahmed shrugs. "My parents send me extra allowance every week."

"But that's not allowed!"

Another shrug. "No one's caught me yet."

I survey the table of cakes half in astonishment and half in disbelief until Ahmed breaks the silence.

"Look," he says. "The first and last time I ran for student government was in the fifth grade. I ran for president against this girl - I can't even remember her name anymore. But I got better grades than her, and I was way more popular, so I figured I was set, nothing to worry about, right? But the day of the election, she got up and said that the basis of her campaign was, she'd get the school to sell ice cream in the cafeteria."

"She said she could control the cafeteria selection in the fifth grade?" I ask, incredulous.

Ahmed shakes his head in remembered disgust. "No way she could actually do it. We were nine years old and the school was doing its crackdown on junk food. She knew it. I knew it. But the other kids? _They_ didn't know it. She won in a landslide. So I learned my lesson - in an election, you can't win unless you promise the electorate some sugar."

"I'm still paying you back for all these," I say.

"Nope," says Ahmed. "This is personal." He turns, nudges me, so I look where he indicates. He points to Pastel's pink-festooned table, where she'd been offering free hugs - my own campaign strategy from last year, I note with irritation, and one which Pastel took liberal advantage of. Pastel is shooting a gimlet eye at our table, taking in the crowd of students that have clustered around it.

"Last year I caught her in the hall trying to hit on Damien," Ahmed says. "He said no, but still - big mistake. That snotty little sylph is going _down_."

Now I grin, and we high five each other, palms coming together in a satisfying smack. "Okay," I say, "let's get these voters some cupcakes!" This is greeted by several whoops behind me, and I turn to see that our display has attracted quite a crowd. We start dispensing cupcakes and badges to the growing crush of students who swarm our table. Even Virginia, who'd been helping Pastel campaign at her table, sneaks over and swipes a cupcake when she seems to think I'm not looking. I try to grin at her, to let her know she's welcome to a cupcake, but she scurries off without looking at me. Pastel isn't having nearly so much success at her table, so I suppose that's comfort enough.

By the time dinner comes around, I'm pleasantly exhausted, and completely out of cupcakes - except for one that Ahmed saved. We split it, sitting on the table, which is now empty except for crumbs and a few wrappers.

"This is going to spoil my dinner," I remark.

"Worth it," Ahmed says, his mouth full of cake and icing. "This was probably the most fun week I've had all year."

"I'm glad someone had fun," I say. "I'm getting sick of politics."

"This?" Ahmed asks. "This is cake." He swallows, then adds "I mean figuratively, it's cake. If you're really going to go through with - y'know, your plan-"

"Yep," I say.

Ahmed finishes his cupcake half, licking icing from his fingers. "You don't have to," he says. "Just do a regular speech. Run for treasurer for real. You don't need to prove anything."

"I know," I say, "but actually, I think I _do_ have to do this. I promised to be brave."

"Well," says Ahmed, sounding resigned, "good luck. You'll need it."

The sun begins to go down over the mountains to the west, casting gold and mauve beams through the lattice-work of branches and leaves.

"If I had any good luck," I say, "I don't think I'd know what to do with it."


	9. Chapter 9

On Friday morning, I don't so much wake up as simply get up. I don't feel as though I've slept at all, though I must have - I kept dreaming over and over that I'd been late to the student council assembly, and that once I'd raced there, I'd forgotten what to say.

 _Talk about un-original_ , I think as I lace up my running shoes in the dark. _Even your stress dreams are clichéd._

I jog through the silent hallway to the Horse Hall exit, my shoes making muffled padding sounds on the tile. I pass election posters - my own, blue and silver; Jacob's, orange and yellow; Minnie's, indigo and gold. Suki's poster is arresting - it depicts her riding on the back of a Godzilla-sized Chester, him breathing fire, her gesturing as though ordering him to smite her enemies. "Vote Suki," it reads, "The Rampage!" I don't know whether to be amused or concerned.

It's the first really cool morning of fall, and although the outdoor air only has the force of a breeze, it's chill enough to nip at my skin - autumn developing the first of its teeth. I decide it's not worth it to cast a heat spell on myself, but to warm up by practicing my sprint start. I prop my foot against a bench, digging my fingers into the hardening soil, whispering "ready... set... go!" before taking off on the path that leads out of the courtyard and onto the twisting mountain road.

I'm halfway to the hairpin turn that serves as my turnaround point before I have to slow, and when I get to the curve, I don't yet feel the need to turn around. Still, there's something about the view that I find arresting, and so I stop at the edge of the road against the metal barrier that comes up to my hips, looking out over the terrain beyond.

The trees are still fully green - no autumn foliage yet - and obscure the roads and pathways below, so that they appear as an unbroken sea of undulating green. The sea stretches before me, making me feel tiny, insignificant. It makes me think, inexplicably, about a car trip that I took with my parents when I was younger - I couldn't have been more than nine or ten. We'd driven up to Montreal, a long drive through mountains just like these, and I remember feeling oddly separate from everything around me - including my parents in the front seat - as though I were moving in a tiny, warm bubble on a path over which I had no control. The memory gives me an odd, melancholic sense of nostalgia.

"I miss being young," I say, softly but out loud. The breeze seems to catch my voice in its teeth and carries it aloft, over the arboreal sea, over the mountains into Canada. It's an effort to turn, to begin to jog and then run back up the hill toward school, and to whatever fate awaits me.

I have white magic on schedule that day, and fidget all the way through. Professor Potsdam's trilling, high-pitched voice - usually a welcome change from Professor Terrec's chillingly serene tone - is grating today, and I have trouble focusing on it, but can't concentrate on anything else. I should be using the time to work on my speech, but I'm too distracted to get through more than a sentence or two. I even try to write out cue cards on cut up bits of paper during lunch, but my hands shake so much that I can't hold them up without dropping them and getting them out of order.

By the time class is finished for the afternoon, I feel like a wreck. I'm light headed and shaky from not eating anything but coffee all day. Even Ahmed, whose presence I usually find a calming one, irritates me whenever he tells me to relax, that everything will be all right. "Nothing's ever 'all right,'" I snap. He leaves me alone after that.

I get to the auditorium early, still feeling paranoid from my dreams the night before. The entire student body of Iris Academy feels restless around me - whispers, shifting chairs, students getting up or sitting down when their class finishes or begins their set of speeches. All of the speeches are similar - bright, banal extollations of Iris Academy school spirit, the wholesome fun in store for the coming year. I'm so sick of them that Suki's speech, which promises equal rights for all monsters and a promise to crush the enemies of her political allies, is a refreshing change. I applaud it a little too loudly, which earns me a sharp look from a pair of junior boys who'd stayed to watch the rest of the speeches.

Minnie, as the incumbent, gives her speech after Suki's, and while her speech is similar to the ones that came before, I note that it's noticeably better written and more interesting than the others. Jacob is next, and his speech lacks much of the smarmy bravado that I think lost him the last election - Minnie's influence, I suspect. His political opponent, Manuel Arias, is so soft-spoken and nervous that it's tough to hear his speech over the rustle of the crowd.

Pastel is next. She punctuates her speech with a good deal of hair tossing, wing fluttering and her dazzling smile. Still, it isn't as though Pastel is all show and no substance - as I listen to her, even I have to admit that her speech is effective. She talks about bringing a "fresh breeze" into the school year, doing away with secrecy and pretense and increasing transparency in student council operations. It gives me an uncomfortable feeling, listening to Pastel extol openness and honesty, a reminder that I've been engaging in obfuscation ever since my unexpected marriage. Maybe I'm still paranoid, but the speech seems almost like a pointed rebuke directed right at me.

I stand halfway through Pastel's speech in order to position myself by the stage steps. It might be just my imagination, but I feel the eyes of Pastel - and most of the other students assembled - upon me as I try to make my way to the stage as discreetly as possible.

Pastel finishes with a little curtsy, and I hear Laurel, who's acting as the emcee for the whole assembly, announce my name. I take a deep breath and ascend the stairs, making the short walk to the podium. Once I'm on the stage, I feel acutely aware that I don't make nearly as great an impression as Pastel, visually. The eyes of the gathered students seem to be assessing me critically, finding that I don't measure up.

"Hello," I say into the microphone. The word comes out in a harsh whisper for the "he" and too loud on the "llo." I clear my throat. "Hello," I say, "everyone. I'm Eliza Moon."

The crowd continues to shift in front of me, still restless, undulating like the leaves on the trees during my run this morning.

"I guess I don't really need to introduce myself," I say, "but for those of you who don't know me, I'm a sophomore. I'm in Horse Hall. I'm wildseed. I'm - I'm married. And I'm running for treasurer this year."

The rustle of the students doesn't abate, but they do seem more curious. Several pairs of eyes rise to look at me, and, suddenly frightened, I have to close my own. My heart's pounding in my chest, my breath coming in shallow and rapid.

 _Coward_ , I think. _What would_ _Hieronymous_ _think if he were here?_

My eyes fly open, and I can see him - Hieronymous - waiting for me at the back of the auditorium, by the double doors that lead to the hall. He's there but not there, back in his old professor's uniform, cape and hat, arms crossed in front of his chest, scowling in that familiar irritated way. In my mind's eye, he raises an eyebrow at me. _Well? Get on with it._

"I served last year's freshman class as treasurer," I say, my voice gaining strength with each word. "And I learned so much. Not just about how to run a class's finances, but about the traditions of this culture - to which I still feel very new."

I'm not sure whether it's my imagination, but it seems that the buzz in the auditorium has quieted.

"I think that our traditions are incredibly important, and that the student council plays a vital role in ensuring their continuance by making sure the requisite funds are available," I say. "I helped to make sure that this happened last year, and if you vote for me, I'll do the same in the year to come."

The buzz gets louder - I'm losing them. The imaginary Grabiner at the back of the room tilts his head at me, and lets out an audible breath through his nose. _Get to the point._

"But I'm not actually here to ask you to vote for me for sophomore class treasurer," I blurt. It comes out too loud, but by this time, I don't care. At least it has the effect of quieting the room.

"I'm here to ask you a question," I continue. "Are you scared?"

Now I have them. The room doesn't just go quiet, it goes silent.

"Because _I'm_ scared," I say. "When I first came to Iris, I wasn't scared. I thought being able to do magic basically meant that I'd be able to do whatever I wanted. Within reason, yes, I knew there would be rules. But I didn't realize that becoming a witch meant entering a life that's ruled entirely by fear."

My palms are now sweating so badly that they slide on the podium as I speak, and I have to resist the urge to wipe them on the skirt of my uniform. The imaginary Grabiner by the double doors nods, both in approval and expectation. Remembering a conversation we'd had last spring, I go on.

"The council makes the rules," I say, "and the teachers terrify us into following them. If we break the rules, we get punished, and if the transgression's bad enough, they take our magic away. You've seen it happen. To your classmates; to your friends." I pause, to let this sink in. "Maybe for someone like me, a wildseed, you think it's not so bad. You go back to your family, to your life before. It's just your whole future taken away, that's all. But if you're born magic, they take _everything_. Your past. Your future. Your family. Your whole community. And the worst part about all of this is they don't even give us the courtesy of telling us _why_. Why the rules are so important - why it's worth taking someone's entire self away, just to make sure that everyone follows the rules. They just expect us to obey them without question. Don't you think that's a little - a little bit fascist?"

No one answers. Everyone in the audience is staring at me.

"So, what do we do about it?" I say, trying to ignore the squirming nausea trying to snake its way from my stomach into my throat. "I don't know."

A murmur in the crowd then, but I can't tell whether it's favorable or hostile to my speech.

"I don't know what to do," I repeat. "But I know what I'm _not_ going to do. I'm not going to just sit down and shut up, keep my head down for the next three years, hoping no one notices me. I'm going to speak up when I see something that isn't right. I'm not going to wait around for someone else to take care of me - even if that _is_ supposed to be her - _their_ job."

I see my mind's-eye Hieronymous mouth twitch downward, but I'm too far gone to worry about how the Hieronymous who lives in my brain disapproves this section of my speech. Despite this sure sign that I am losing my mind in front of the entire Academy, I continue.

"So I wanna know if anyone here agrees with me," I say. "I'm not going to ask you to speak up if you don't want to right now. This is serious stuff, and you should take your time and think about it. But if you do think that if the way we students are being treated isn't fair? If you don't want to keep your head down? If you want answers about why we're treated this way? Vote for me."

Another restless rustle in the crowd.

"Ballots are anonymous and secret," I say, raising my voice over the sudden noise. "No one's going to know how you voted - not the teachers, not Professor Potsdam. But if I win, then I'll know that there's enough students out there who won't sit down and shut up - enough to maybe make some kind of change in our school. In our lives, really. And more importantly, you'll know, too."

The low ebb of nausea in my stomach suddenly rears up, and I think that if I don't get off of the stage soon, I'll likely throw up down the front of my uniform. I shut my eyes to deliver the last line of my speech.

"There's a lot of magic out there, waiting," I say. "Let's face it together."

I step back from the podium, open my eyes, and glance over the audience. They're all sitting still. No one applauds as I step down the stairs that lead from the stage. I don't even get the polite smattering of claps that Suki had - only silence.

The aisle leading to the double doors at the back of the auditorium suddenly feels like the longest stretch I've ever had to walk, yawning before me like I'm having some hideous fever dream. But then the Hieronymous in my imagination suddenly brings his hands up to chest level, and makes a quick, flicking motion with his fingers.

_Come here._

Suddenly, the aisle snaps back into its proper proportions and I'm walking it - quickly, easily, because now I have somewhere to go. I don't feel the eyes of the students crawling over my skin any more, and I don't notice the silence. I'm almost there. I reach out both hands to clasp his - but instead feel the smooth, cool metal of the door's opener bar under my fingers. I lean on it, and push my way out into the hall.

Ahmed's there, pacing, chewing on one ragged cuticle. When he hears the doors open, he looks up, startled.

"I couldn't watch - how'd it go?" he asks.

"I guess we'll find out," I say.

Ahmed and I are at the front of the line to cast our votes for the sophomore class. I end up voting what I think of as the "losers block" - Suki for president, Manuel for secretary, me for treasurer. I vote for Suki more out of loyalty than any assurance that she'll win - if she does, I think her presidency would be a disaster of Godzilla-like proportions. Still, if there's a chance she might crush my political enemies, I figure it's worth a shot.

Suki herself bounces over to Ahmed and me after voting, saying "I think that went really well, don't you?" I'm not sure what to say to her, so I just give her a nervous smile.

We make our way back into the auditorium, and I huddle in one of the seats, waiting for the freshman voting to be over, and trying not to catch anyone's eye. _So much for not keeping your head down_ , I think, but I can't help trying to hide. By the time Professor Potsdam steps to the podium and begins to rattle off the senior and junior class office winners, I'm slouched halfway down my chair, holding my breath.

"And the sophomore class treasurer will be-" Professor Potsdam announces, her eyebrows raising under her wide-brimmed hat. "By an astonishingly wide margin - Eliza Moon!"

I don't actually process what Professor Potsdam's just said until Ahmed claps a hand on my shoulder. "You won!"

_I won!_

No one is applauding, but I didn't expect them to. Just the sudden, sheer relief of not being alone in my fears for the future surges through me, an electric current, warm and exhilarating.

"An 'astonishingly wide margin,'" marvels Ahmed. "You really got 'em."

I sit in a daze through Professor Potsdam's next announcements - Minnie and Jacob winning their respective positions. Under ordinary circumstances I'd be annoyed with getting stuck with the two of them hanging all over each other all year, but I'm too overwhelmed by my own victory.

"And now," Professor Potsdam says, "the freshman class treasurer will be-" she cuts off, and brings the card she's reading closer to her face. Then she laughs, a ringing giggle.

"I'm afraid we shall have to cast the vote for freshman class treasurer again," Professor Potsdam says. "And I must remind the freshmen that it is not permitted to write in a candidate from another class."

The implication of this slides around my brain like a slippery sliver of soap at the bottom of a bathtub, and it feels like a full minute before I really grasp it.

" _Sheez_ ," Ahmed breathes. "The freshmen must have voted for you, too!"

Professor Potsdam announces the freshman President, then walks off the stage and down the aisle to lead the freshmen in another treasurer vote. She pauses at my row, and beams at me.

"Congratulations, Eliza!" she says, then pauses, head tilted. "I do hope you know what you're doing." She sweeps off in a swirl of pink.

Both Ahmed and I sit still and silent as the rest of the students bustle out of the auditorium. Once it's nearly empty, Ahmed turns to me.

"So, uh," he says, " _do_ you know what you're doing?"

"No," I say.


	10. Chapter 10

I roll over in bed, hearing the crinkle of paper as I move, and sigh. The sheets of paper stuffed into my pillow aren't exactly conductive to sleep, but are necessary for my own peace of mind. I've gotten so paranoid about my roommates going through my things and finding my letters that I haven't just stuffed them into my pillowcase - I slit a hole in the pillow itself with my pocketknife, and slid the letters inside, among the polyfill stuffing. Not the best way to store letters flat, or for that matter, keep them somewhere I can easily pull them out again to read - but then again, I've found myself unwilling to re-read my husband's letters to me over the past few weeks. They're all the same - griping about the weather and the crowds, saying he's been busy without saying what, exactly, he's busy with. A few jokes about looking forward to our upcoming divorce which are meant to be light and witty, but which only make me feel depressed. All very friendly, all very polite, and all so impersonal that they make me want to scream.

And here, lying in the dark I see what's going to happen in the coming years, as though it were a film being projected on the back of my eyelids. The divorce, the not-a-date dinner afterward, the awkward small talk rehashing what he's already written to me in his letters, the growing silences over forkfuls of too-rich food. I'll pretend not to see the look of relief on Hieronymous's face when he finally drops me off at Iris before going back to England. The letters - I won't be able to _not_ write to him - but his letters will start getting shorter week by week, phrase by phrase. The time between letters will grow, first by days, then by weeks. And then there will be a letter I send to him that goes unanswered, and I won't be able to summon the courage to write again, to tell him he's forgotten me.

And even if I do the thing that now seems more impossible with every passing day, and get into Oxford, I'll have only just enough fortitude to write and tell him. And he'll respond kindly, invite me to coffee or lunch somewhere in Oxbridge. When we meet, something about him will have changed slightly - he'll have cut his hair or gained weight around his face. And he'll make some remark about how I've grown up, and I'll pretend to laugh. And when I get up to go, it'll be me with an expression of relief on my face, thinking _how funny, I used to think I was in love with him_.

This projection is so strong that for a moment I think I really am there, running across a street to get back to campus for an afternoon class, looking back with a mix of nostalgia and embarrassment, thinking of how I used to lie awake at night on my bunk, despairing about how he'd gradually forget about me. And then Virginia rolls over with a snort, and the illusion breaks, and I'm back in the present - my sadness still raw and uncushioned by time.

 _If I had stayed there, it would be different_ , I can't help thinking. _I could make him not want to get rid of me. That last night in England - he didn't kiss me like he wanted to be rid of me._

 _No_ , a more rebellious thought surfaces, _but he sure pushed you away like he did_.

I roll over again. Thinking like this is like tonguing a sore in my mouth - I know I shouldn't, that it will only make things worse. But I can't help it, all the same.

_Professor Terrec, think about Professor Terrec._

I don't want to think about Professor Terrec any more than I want to think about Hieronymous, but I'm going to have to sooner or later. Although I hadn't seen him in the auditorium on Friday, this certainly doesn't mean that he won't have heard about my speech and subsequent landslide victory. And I can't even begin to guess what he might do about it. Even though my election speech seemed - still seems - like the right thing to do, now that all the adrenaline has seeped away, it also strikes me as pretty stupid.

 _Well whatever_ , I think. _I'm supposed to be the brave one in this marriage, not the smart one._ The thought doesn't comfort me much.

Between my tossing back and forth in bed and my brain tossing back and forth between professors Grabiner and Terrec, I get what feels like no sleep at all. By the time I climb quietly from my bunk on Saturday morning, I feel haggard and bleary. I pull on a uniform in the dark and trudge down the hall to the mail room.

 _Just get the mail out and then you can go on an extra long run_ , I think, and the thought of a nice run in the crisp autumn air cheers me up. Maybe I can even wear myself out enough to take a nap later, get myself back to feeling human.

I unlock the mail room door and push it in - and then freeze. All thought of runs and naps fly out of my head. Professor Terrec is sitting at the mail room table, his hands folded before him.

 _Waiting for me_ , I think, a freezing gush of terror seeming to spill over me. _What's he going to do, expel me here and now, just like the girl who'd had the mp3 player?_

And then it hits me - _no, not like her_. Because he'd expelled her in front of a crowd of freshmen, to teach them a lesson. And for my own, very public transgression, he won't be content with a private expulsion. He'll want to do whatever he's going to do to me in front of a crowd - maybe the entire school. So whatever he's planning, it won't happen in an empty room at five in the morning - at least, I hope it won't.

So I screw up my courage and walk calmly into the room, pulling up a chair to the table at which Professor Terrec is sitting. He raises his eyebrows slightly at this, and I belatedly realize that I probably ought to have waited until he invited me to sit. Oh well - I'd never been that good about etiquette, anyway.

Only when I am seated I say "Good morning, Professor Terrec."

"Good morning... Miss Moon," Professor Terrec says in his not-quite-an-accent. "I came to congratulate you on your victory."

"Thank you," I say, as calmly and evenly as I'm able, waiting for the inevitable 'but.' Professor Terrec draws the pause out, sucking his teeth a little.

"I must say," he finally says, "that I hadn't expected such cynicism in one so young."

This throws me. "What do you mean?" I ask, throwing in a "sir," just in time.

He blinks at me serenely, in no hurry to answer. I have to force myself from squirming under his indigo eyes. They seem so bright that I wonder if they're dyed contacts - or possibly a sign of some enormous magical power. They're also - I can't help thinking - incredibly beautiful. If Professor Terrec hadn't been such a fascist creep, and if I hadn't been married, I might have been swooning over him as badly as Pastel.

"Playing on the fears of your fellow students to win a class office," he says. "You are, of course, permitted to use any election tactic you please, although that does strike me as being in rather poor taste."

I'm momentarily too stunned to speak. Does he think I just made that whole speech, just to win the election? And then I realize - no, he doesn't think that. But he's giving me the chance to take it back. To say I didn't mean it.

"I'm afraid you're mistaken," I say, as clearly as I can. "I meant every word of that speech."

"Ah," Professor Terrec replies, not even bothering to act surprised. To my immense relief, he turns the force of his gaze from me, and stares off into space, his features taking on that dreamy, unfocused look. He sits still, staring into space for so long that I begin to wonder whether he's forgotten that I'm here.

Finally, he speaks again. "A child," he says, "does not understand why e mustn't play with knives. And when es mother takes them away from em, e believes that she is being cruel. Do you understand?"

"Yeah," I say, "but that analogy's... inapt," I retort, using one of my dad's legal words and hoping that it means what I think it means. "A good mother teaches the child that knives are sharp, and teaches em how to use them when e's older. She doesn't just throw em out on the street if e makes a mistake. And anyway, we're not babies."

The look Professor Terrec gives me then mixes bemusement with pity with distaste, as though he were looking at some scruffy, flea-bitten primate trying to do something reserved for humans - smoking a cigarette, maybe, imitating the motions of the smokers around it, lacking the intelligence to understand that it doesn't belong. A phrase pops into my head - _it thinks it's people_.

"But you are," Professor Terrec softly. "You, in particular, are."

I bristle at this condescension. "Why?" I ask. "Just because I'm wildseed?"

Professor Terc doesn't seem to register the sharpness in my voice - his face remains serene as he says "of course."

I'm so aghast at this answer that I start to splutter. "But - that's - that's not-"

Professor Terrec continues to stare at me, and I find myself unable to finish the phrase, instead sputtering into silence.

Professor Terrec's mouth turns up at the corners. "Were you going to say _fair_?" he asks. "And you were insisting that you're not a baby." He gives a dry chuckle, and I feel my face heating to what must be a furious shade of red.

"Well it _isn't_ fair," I snap. "You don't get to treat me differently from anyone else just because I'm wildseed. I deserve the same education-"

"You _deserve_ ," Professor Terrec interrupts, tenting his fingers under his chin. "I find that such a fascinating concept. You children - you wildseeds, I should say, especially those native to this country - are always going on about what they _deserve_. As though it wasn't enough that you were born in a time and place where you would not be burned at the stake for being what you are."

"My country never burned witches at the stake," I snap. "They were hanged. Or pressed."

"Forgive me for failing to make the distinction," Professor Terrec says, a smirk playing on his features. "Mine did."

Given his name, I suppose he must mean France, which I suppose makes sense, considering his accent. Before I can think to say anything about this, he continues. "The manner of death notwithstanding, wildseeds have never been particularly valued. In fact, until the early twentieth century, your kind were not permitted to be taught magic at all."

I had no idea that this was the case, and I stare back at Professor Terrec in wondering shock. I want to call him a liar, but somehow I can't bring myself to say the words. Instead I ask, in a near whisper, "why not?"

"It was considered far too dangerous," Professor Terrec says in a matter-of-fact tone. "And, in fact, a little cruel. To take children from their families only to drop them into a world they don't understand, then watch them struggle to adapt. Even if they make a success of it - and many do not - they can never return to their families again. Terribly tragic." He throws the last phrase out as though he were tossing it over his shoulder. "They simply do not have the background to flourish in our world. Better to leave them where they are, poor things."

My fury at being referred to - even obliquely - as a "poor thing" makes me forget to be wary. "Don't you think I ought to be the one to make that choice?" I snap, forgetting to append my sentence with a "sir."

"How can I expect you to make a choice," Professor Terrec responds, "when you know nothing about this world, and understand nothing about this culture?"

"So teach us," I say.

"Why should I?" Professor Terrec replies, and the flippant way he says it stuns me into silence. I gape at him, mouth open, and probably looking ridiculous.

Professor Terrec leans forward, arms on the table to the elbows, his long, tapered fingers stretching in my direction. "Why should I waste my time on a wildseed who doesn't understand the gift e possesses - who runs toward danger instead of prudently running away? One who will likely get emself killed before another year goes by?"

 _It's just like what Hieronymous said about me on the first day we met_ , I think, chilly all over. But I steel myself, and then hiss through my teeth, "because it's your _job_."

For a fleeting moment, I think I've won the argument, but Professor Terrec only leans back again, a satisfied smirk on his face. "On that score," he says, "I'm afraid you may have been misinformed."

"So - what," I say, my anger overcoming any semblance of caution I may have felt. "You're here to expel us? Do the merciful thing? Put us out of our misery? No thanks."

Profesor Terrec's smirk dies a little bit at the corners. "I'm quite surprised to hear the wife of the seventeenth Lord Montague speaking to me in such a fashion," he says. "I have been made aware that your marriage took place under unusual circumstances, but surely he has made you aware that as the wife of such an illustrious personage, you have certain appearances to uphold?"

For a moment, I'm too stunned to respond. Does he mean etiquette? My vows of kindness and courage? "I don't know what you mean," I say at last.

Now Professor Terrec has stopped smiling altogether, and is looking at me with an intense curiosity. "What I mean, _Lady Montague_ , is your obedience to your husband's orders. Surely Lord Montague cannot have required you to make such a spectacle of yourself yesterday afternoon."

"I don't have to be obedient!" I say hotly. "I keep my independence, even if we are married! He told me so!"

"And he has retained this view throughout your entire marriage?" Professor Terrec asks.

"I don't see how that's any of your business," I say, "but yes."

Professor Terrec's hands rise in front of him, a quick, unconscious gesture, and I brace myself, thinking he's going to cast a spell on me. But instead, he freezes, hands paused in mid-air, eyes narrowing. Slowly, very slowly, he lowers his hands to the table.

"I see," he says. "In that case, it is not for me to interfere with the terms of your marriage. My duties, happily, lie elsewhere."

Before I can ask him what he means by this, Professor Terrec changes the subject. "Though I do have a duty to fulfill today, which is to inform you about your next task for the sophomore class - preparation for the Dark Dance this month."

"Why?" I ask. "Don't we just do incense?"

Professor Terrec gives me that bemused, pitying look again, and I realize my mistake. The _freshmen_ do the incense - now that we're sophomores, we're probably in charge of something else.

"No," Professor Terrec says. "The sophomore class is in charge of decor."

I'm so irritated at myself for making the slip, I forget again to be polite. "Why?" I ask again. "There's no reason to decorate - it's _dark_."

Professor Terrec stands in one fluid motion and begins to walk to the door. "If you are so insistent that you can understand my culture," he says, "perhaps you can determine this for yourself. Good morning." The door clicks behind him, and Professor Terrec is gone.

I find myself unable to sit still. I jump up from the seat and grab a double handful of mail, trying to ignore my own hands shaking as I sort it on the table. My brain can't quite seem to grasp the import of the conversation - was it some kind of warning? But why bother warning me? If he wants to expel me, why doesn't he just do it? Professor Potsdam already told me there was nothing she could do to stop him.

I grab another double handful of mail. The envelopes slide through my fingers, the papers rasping against each other. During my sorting, I unearth a thick blue envelope addressed to Ahmed - Damien I bet, it's the same flowing handwriting, and no return address. I continue to sort the mail, but find no envelopes that respond to my touch - nothing from Hieronymous this week. I bury my disappointment in work, but my thoughts keep straying to the blue envelope. Once I'm finished with the rest of the mail, I pause at the Toad Hall pile, and pick Damien's letter to Ahmed up again. What must it be like to have a boyfriend who wrote you long, thick, heavy letters like that? If I had made another choice, if I'd told Damien we could be friends a year ago, would I have found out?

_Or would it have been me bleeding on the floor of the gym?_

I drop the blue envelope onto the stack for Toad Hall in a hurry. _God_ , I think, _why can't Ahmed and I just have normal boyfriends? That would be nice. We could go on double dates to the mall or maybe the Glen if we saved up our allowance. We could be laughing right now about whether we'd get asked to the Dark Dance, not fielding threats from the professors._

Of course, the Dark Dance has its own problems - I'm still inwardly cringing at my mistake about the incense, about the look of bemused pity and distaste Professor Terrec had given me.

 _If you're so insistent that you can understand my culture_ , he'd said. Well, fine, I decide. I can become Iris Academy's foremost expert on the Dark Dance - I have a few weeks after all. And maybe this will help me get going on my ambition to study history. You can't just read textbooks and become an historian, I decide. You have to have _goals_.

Cheered by this thought, I'm halfway to the door with my first pile of mail for delivery when I realize I've forgotten to sort out the allowances - which I usually do first thing.

 _When am I going to start doing things right for a change?_ I think, and with a sigh, sit back down at the mail table.


	11. Chapter 11

After sorting the allowances, delivering the mail, and rewarding myself with my extra-long run and a shower after, it's late enough to be lunch time. I don't seek out Ahmed or sit at my usual table, but dash into the cafeteria just long enough to grab a peanut butter and banana sandwich and stuff it into my pocket. Then I race to the library so I can get there while everyone else is still eating.

I make it - the library is nearly deserted by the time I get in. I notice that Minnie has staked out her usual center table with a pile of books on all aspects of the pentachromatic system of magic - her tutoring sessions must be in full swing.

I find a table in a back corner, slightly hidden by a protruding bookshelf, put my shoulder bag into a chair, and then dash to the history textbook shelf. I pull all the books I can carry, then deposit them on my table, spreading them out in the hope that I'll take up so much room, no one will try to sit with me.

 _Okay_ , I think to myself, flipping book after book to their indices, _Dark Dance, Dark Dance._ I pull the first book in which the phrase appears closer to me, flip to the section, and start to read.

_The Dark Dance is an ancient custom among magical humans, marking the day of the year when the veil between our world and the Otherworld grows thinnest, allowing for freer passage._

Okay, I know that much already. I keep reading.

_In Western Europe and the Americas, the practice is most closely related to the Celtic festival of Samhain. The festival marks not only the closeness of the Otherworld, but the close of the year and the start of winter. The Dark Dance was held as a communion with the spirits of the Otherworld, and as a means of asking those spirits for their help in surviving the coming months._

_In modern times, humans need less assistance during the winter months, and the Dark Dance has thus become more symbolic than practical. Invitations to the creatures of the Otherworld are issued to benign spirits only, rather than the open invitation that might attract more powerful, and more dangerous beings. Such beings could be very helpful in assisting a community to survive through the cold of winter, but the sacrifices they required in exchange - both animal and human - were costly._

This stops me cold. _Human sacrifice?_ That can't be right at all. I don't remember taking part in any kind of sacrificial ritual, even a symbolic one, during last year's Dark Dance. And anyway, even I know that tales of human sacrifice in the non-magical world were usually false - written to shock, to titillate, to convince the members of an imperialist culture that they had the right to control others, because those others were so primitive, so barbarous. And talk of human sacrifice does not jibe with Professor Potsdam's sunshine-and-light-and-informed-consent presentation of the magical world.

I flip to the title page of the book - _Magical Culture and Practice_. It was written in 1956. Sort of old-timey I guess, but it still seems pretty late to be talking about human sacrifice in a serious fashion. I shove the book away and reach for another.

It takes me six books before I come across even a vague explanation of the sacrifices the first book mentioned. The others have general descriptions about the Dark Dance, and while they give me some good ideas for what the decorations should be - forest glens, thick foliage, preferably evergreen trees nearby - they don't clarify what the first book meant by human sacrifices. The closest they come is describing offerings - sweets, cuts of meat, pastries - left in a shadowy corner of the grove for hungry Otherworld creatures to enjoy in solitude.

The seventh book is smaller than the other history textbooks - I'd grabbed it as an afterthought only because it was small enough that it could be carried at the top of my precarious pile without falling. There's no title on the cover, the spine is cracked and frayed, and the corners are mushy with age. The frontispiece reads _Traditions of Witcherie_ , and reveals that it was printed in 1912. Based on the odd terms and spelling, it seems like it was written before the 20th century, but if it was, I can't find the date. It 's also far more disorganized than the other books. There are no chapter headings, no sections, no questions for reading comprehension at the end. There's only a constantly rambling wall of text, full of archaic vocabulary.

Despite the book's eccentricities - or perhaps because of them - I find myself completely absorbed in the book after only a few minutes. Reading it is like following a meandering path through a densely wooded forest, coming across strange little clearings full of unusual sights. There are descriptions of odd creatures, instructions for manufacturing little protective amulets, and recommendations for alternate hand positions for certain thumb-cracking spells I've never heard of. There's even a potion recipe titled _For Deepeſt Paſſion_ , and though I consider love spells to be cheating, I can't help but examine it more closely. To my disappointment, however, the recipe is long and complicated, involving the body parts of creatures I didn't know existed, and requiring extended periods of time for steeping, macerating, and distilling at various stages. It might, I consider, flipping the page, be easier to just fall in love with someone on your own, even if I'm not quite sure how one accomplishes that yet.

When I find the section on the Dark Dance, I nearly flip past it. In this book, it's called the "Foreſt Danſe," but a quick glance at the description reveals that the two are certainly the same ritual. _Held at the threſhehold of Winter, when the Borders between Worlds grow thinne..._ Yes - definitely the Dark Dance. I keep reading.

_The Danſe ſhall be held in deepeſt Forest Glenn at dusk and continue til dawn breaks. Great care must be taeken to ensure that only faintest ſtarlyte and moonlyte enter the Glenn leſt any ſpirits be ſeen by the eyes of mortal men. Still greater care must be tayken to enſure that only benevolent ſpirits be preſent for the Danſe. There are ſome in the habit of using the Danſe as a means of ſtealing away ſome young perſonne to ſerve them as bride or bride-groom in the Otherlands._

I pause over this section, considering. Could this be the human sacrifice the other book was talking about? Not killing some innocent in the name of gaining the spirits' favor, like in a Greek tragedy or a B movie, but offering someone up as an eligible marriage partner. It might make sense in an era when marriages were seen largely as business contracts in which a whole family's well being was involved.

 _Kind of like how my marriage is a business contract_ , I think. _I bargained for protection from the nasty manus, and Hieronymous got to take care of an imbicilic 17 year old who runs towards danger instead of away from it. He certainly got the raw end of_ that _deal._

This thought is too depressing to contemplate further, so I focus back on finishing the paragraph in my book.

_Those not wiſhing to be abducted ſhould tayke the precautionne of pinning a ſprigg of Hawthorne-leaves to their perſonne._

I snort a little at the thought of trusting a bunch of leaves to protect one against potential kidnapping by spirits. The book doesn't provide any explanation of why the creatures of the Otherworld would be adverse to hawthorn leaves, but continues its meandering to another subject.

I sigh, glance up at the clock - and realize that it's nearly three in the afternoon. I'd told myself last week that I had better finish up my essay prompt in green magic by tonight so I could get started on our big white magic project - a class demonstration on using white spells to see through obstacles, sort of like setting up our own miniature exams for the rest of the class to solve. Technically the project isn't due until the end of term, but I think Ellen has already got a head start on hers, and I'm still determined to follow her academic lead, even if we aren't exactly speaking to each other just now.

So I bundle up my borrowed books to shove them back on their shelf - all of them, that is, except for the little gray book. I scoop that one up once the others are put away, and head to the main desk.

Mr. Underberg, the weekend librarian, is manning the desk behind his bristly brush of ginger beard. He's young - can't be much more than twenty-five in my estimation - and has an impressive collection of decidedly non-magical comic books stashed in his messenger bag, which he reads when he thinks no one is looking. As I approach the desk, he stuffs a copy of _Fionna and Cake_ into one of the drawers, and picks up a hefty volume titled _Advanced Practical Black Magic_.

"Hi Mr. Underberg, can I check this out please?" I say, putting the book on the desk.

"Hey... you," Mr. Underberg replies. He's evidently forgotten my name, or never bothered to learn it in the first place, even though I'm here practically every weekend. He picks up the book, and flips to the back. Then he flips to the front again. "How old is this thing?" he asks, a sudden sharpness taking over his normally vague expression.

"Oh! Uh. Nineteen-twelve," I reply, putting on what I hope is an innocent expression. _Well it's true, isn't it?_ I think, wondering why I feel so defensive all of the sudden.

Mr. Underberg gives me a suspicious glance, then turns to the book's frontispiece. The date on the page seems to satisfy him, however, and he flips to the back of the book again.

"Okay," he says, "due back on..." a date appears on the back card - "November fifth." He closes the back cover, but instead of handing me the book, he places one meaty hand on its cover. I stare at it for a moment, marveling at the orangish hair that springs from his knuckles before looking back up at him.

"So, uh," Mr. Underberg says, "you'll let me know if you see any books that are older than, say, eighteen-ninety, right?"

"Sure," I say, and he hands me the book. I half turn before looking back and asking him "why?"

He shrugs. "Just the rules," he says.

Unexpectedly, I feel a sudden rage blossom in my chest. _Just the rules?_ What the hell kind of answer is that? But instead of snapping at him, I take a deep breath and get my temper under control.

"Okay," I say, and walk off, letting Mr. Underberg get back to his comic.

I manage a decent draft of my green essay before my growling stomach reminds me that I've only eaten a sandwich all day. I get up, stretch, and head down the corridor to Toad Hall to see if Ahmed wants to get some food.

When I knock on Ahmed's door, though, his roommate Orrin is the one who opens it. He's a large, taciturn boy, who by my count hasn't said more than five words to me at a time. He grunts in a sort of greeting.

"Hey, Ahmed here?" I ask, affecting nonchalance.

"Haven't seen'm since we got up," Orrin replies.

Six whole words - possibly seven if you count the mumbled contraction. A new record.

"Oh, well, can you tell him I went to get dinner?" I ask.

Orrin grunts his reply.

"Thanks," I say, as brightly as I can. But as I turn away, Orrin - to my surprise - speaks up again.

"You c'n wait in here if you want," he says, opening the door wider. The room wafts the goatish smell of indifferently washed teenage boy bed sheets into the hall. I force a smile.

"No thanks!" I say. "Bye!" And I dash down the hall to the cafeteria, where my remaining dinner companion and her plastic Godzilla are waiting.

Ahmed shows up about halfway through dinner, and sits without getting himself a tray of food. "Hey," he says, not quite looking me in the eye. "Sorry I missed lunch."

"Oh, that's okay, I missed lunch too," I say. Ahmed looks a little startled at this, and oddly, a little disappointed. "Don't worry, I would totally have missed you if I'd been there," I say.

Ahmed gives a dry little laugh, but doesn't say anything. I turn to peer at him a little more closely. His eyes aren't exactly red, but they're puffy and tired-looking.

"Everything okay?" I ask.

"Fine," Ahmed answers, a little too quickly for everything to actually be fine.

"Family or boys?" I persist.

Ahmed sighs. "A little of both. I really don't want to talk about it."

"Okay," I say, deciding that he really means it. "So I'm starting prep for the Dark Dance this month. You wanna go with me as my friend-date?"

At this, Ahmed starts as though I've just touched him with the business end of a cattle prod. "No!" he says.

"Jeez, you could try for polite rejection at least," I say, trying to sound only play-offended and not entirely succeeding.

"You know that's not what I meant," says Ahmed, a bit of a snap in his voice. "I just don't like the Dark Dance. It's too crowded."

"It's not that bad," I insist. "And I'll totally body-check anyone that gets too close to you, okay?"

But Ahmed shakes his head. "I have plans that night anyway."

"With whom?" I ask. "Everyone here is going to the dance!"

"You should take Orrin," Ahmed says. "He was all a-twitter about you coming to our room before dinner. I think he has a crush on you."

I snicker at the thought of large, stoic Orrin being a-twitter about anything. "He does know I'm a married woman, right?" I say.

"I think that's part of the appeal," says Ahmed. "The untouchable married woman, up on her pedestal? Very courtly love."

"I'll skip the pedestal, thanks," I mutter.

"Actually he's been talking about you nonstop since yesterday afternoon," Ahmed continues, "asking if you're going to do something crazy like challenge Professor Terrec to a duel or something. Have you figured it out yet, though? What you're going to do?" Now both Ahmed and Suki are looking at me with interest.

 _Nice change of subject_ , I think, but Ahmed's right - I've spoken my piece in front of the whole school, and now it's time for action. The trouble is, between Professor Terrec this morning, and planning the Dark Dance and doing homework in the afternoon, I haven't thought of any follow up to my speech.

"Well," I start, "unless Suki's figured out how to make Chester Godzilla-sized..."

Suki sighs. "Another failed attempt last night," she says. "The spell to give him wings worked, though!" she holds up her pen, and sure enough, Chester is now sporting a pair of green, bat-like wings that seem to flutter delicately in the air wafting from the cafeteria ventilation system.

"Huh..." is all I can manage, but Ahmed at least has the presence of mind to say "Looking good, Chester!" Suki beams at him.

"But yeah, other than that, I've got nothing," I admit.

"Well you better think of something," warns Ahmed. "Otherwise everyone's going to think you're all talk."

"Yeah, well, you're my campaign manager, you think of something," I grouse.

"The campaign's over," says Ahmed, "and I did _not_ sign up to lead a student revolt. That was you."

I can't argue with that, so instead I stick a forkful of meatloaf into my mouth and start chewing. Ahmed helps himself to my bread roll, looking like whatever was bothering him before dinner has passed on.

But I'm not quite so eager to forget. There's something about Ahmed's mood at the start of the evening that bothers me, and as I'm finishing up my meatloaf, I realize what it is. It's that Ahmed's mood coincided with the morning appearance if that extra-thick blue envelope with the flowing handwriting and no forwarding address.

After we finish dinner, I make sure that Suki falls behind as Ahmed and I leave the cafeteria. "Let's take a walk, yeah?" I ask, pointing to the double doors leading to the courtyard.

Ahmed shrugs. "Sure," he replies, and we walk outside.

Only last month, students would have been crowding the courtyard after dinner, enjoying the last rays of light and the lingering late summer warmth. Tonight, though, a chilly breeze is whipping its way through trees that are beginning to show their colors, and we have the courtyard mostly to ourselves.

I don't quite know how to begin to ask what I think I have to ask, so I decide to just spit it out. "Listen," I say, "you're not going to sneak out to see Damien during the Dark Dance, are you?"

Ahmed turns to me, his face suddenly closed off, his eyes narrowed and suspicious. "Why?" he asks.

"I just saw he wrote you and you seemed kind of..." I start, but trail off, unsure of how to continue.

"Well what if I am?" Ahmed snaps. "It's none of your business."

 _But he hurt you!_ I want to scream, but I bite the words back. After all, saying that out loud would be a one-way ticket to the land of Ahmed never speaking to me again, and I've lost too many friends this year already.

"I just don't think it's a good idea," I stammer. "I mean, he got expelled so you could get in trouble for sneaking out to see him, right? And with Professor Terrec around, he might, you know, expel you too. Or something."

Ahmed scoffs. "Thanks," he says, "but that'd be a little more convincing coming from someone who, you know, didn't just call Professor Terrec out in front of the entire school?"

"That's not the same thing!" I reply, bristling. "I _had_ to do that. But there's a difference - I'm trying to keep everyone safe! It isn't worth getting expelled just to, like, hang out with your boyfriend!"

If I'd hoped to convince Ahmed with this argument, I had sorely miscalculated. He whirls on me with a furious look on his face that I've never seen him make. I take a little involuntary step back into a bed of posies, the heel of my shoe sinking in the soft soil.

"Don't act like you're so high and mighty!" he shouts, "and don't pretend that you know _anything_ about me and Damien! Nobody here knows anything about it except for him and me, so you need to just stay out of it!"

"Just promise you won't sneak out, okay?" I say, pressing my advantage.

" _God_ ," scoffs Ahmed."You know you sound like Max, right? During our final? Asking me never to talk to Damien again or he couldn't be friends with me any more? I already got kicked out of my hall, Eliza, I'm not sure what you think you're going to accomplish."

" _Please_ ," I say, half ashamed of the pleading note that enters my voice when I say it. I know that I can't win, but I have to at least try. "You don't have to promise, just say you won't sneak out, and I won't say anything else about Damien unless you bring him up, okay? Please."

I brace myself for Ahmed's reaction, but, to my shock, he just shrugs.

"Okay," he says in a flat, emotionless voice. "I'm not gonna sneak out. I _promise_. Okay? Are you happy now?"

He doesn't wait for me to answer before turning on his heel and stalking off in the direction of Toad Hall.

I remain in the courtyard thinking that actually, no, I'm not happy. What I am is relieved, and also a little scared. What if Ahmed doesn't sneak out, but does decide that he isn't going to speak to me any more? He's my only real friend at Iris Academy, I realize, with all the crushing loneliness that comes along with the thought. And without him, I don't know what I'm going to do about Professor Terrec, school, my husband - any of it.

I trudge toward Horse Hall, prepared for a sleepless night and an anxious morning.

But, to my surprise, Ahmed shows up at my door on Sunday morning for breakfast without mentioning our fight the night before, and acting as though our argument had never taken place at all. As we make our way to the cafeteria, chatting about classes and homework, my anxiety changes to caution, then to optimism, and finally to cheer. _No matter what dumb things I say, Ahmed's not going to leave me the way everyone else has_ , I think. _And I won't have to get through this term all alone_.


	12. Chapter 12

The next Saturday, after delivering the mail, I take myself on a long walk out of campus.

Despite my anxiety over the last weekend, the past week had gone as smoothly as could possibly be expected. I'd gone to all my classes, kept my head down, turned in all my homework on time, and generally behaved like a model student. Professor Terrec, in turn, had seemed watchful but hadn't paid me any particular notice. Mostly he's been pretending that I don't exist, which I've decided suits me fine.

But the calm of the week has gotten me even more nervous than usual. I've noticed little clusters of students whispering, pointing me out, then going silent as I pass them by. Everyone's expecting me to do something to top my rebellious speech - but I still don't have any idea what I ought to do.

A long walk, I decide, as I set out from the courtyard, is exactly what I need. Not just to clear my head, but to get away from everyone's expectations for a few hours. I have a book tucked under my arm - _Intermediate Magical Botany_ \- that I've checked out from the library. And in my uniform pocket I have my latest letter from my husband - unopened. When I'd received it this morning, I'd felt none of the excitement and happiness I'd felt that first Saturday. All I'd thought was _about time_ , and had shoved it into my pocket to open and read later.

I set out on the road leading up the mountain from Iris, keeping an eye out for cars. The surrounding trees have just begun to turn, and the effect is magnificent. The forest is a riot of scarlet, flame and ochre, so bright that it almost hurts my eyes to look at it for very long. I've always joined my parents in making fun of the self-styled "leaf peepers" who invade New England every fall to watch the foliage change, but today I have to admit that it seems like a fine and gentle hobby to appreciate the kind of beauty that stretches out before me as I climb higher on the mountain path.

From time to time I stop to examine the trees growing along the side of the road, comparing them against the pictures in my _Magical Botany_ book. I'm on the hunt for a hawthorn tree which will consist of my contribution to this year's Dark Dance decorations.

We'd had our first "official" student council meeting on Thursday night - at least, it had felt official, considering our meetings last year consisted of whenever Minnie and I had run into each other in the school hallways. Now that our class officers consist of three people, we've moved to the slightly more formal method of meeting up in Minnie's room after dinner. I'd been dreading the meeting, and had arrived a little late to find the room door partly open, and Minnie, Jacob and Pastel talking and laughing, Jacob's arm slung around Minnie's shoulders. When I'd knocked, the laughter had ceased, and Pastel had stayed in the room just long enough to glare at me before sweeping out.

Neither Minnie nor Jacob had looked particularly happy to see me, but Minnie at least made an effort. "Hi Eliza," she'd said, shrugging Jacob's arm away, and scooting down on the bed where they'd been sitting hip to hip. This hadn't seemed to help Jacob's mood.

"That was some speech," he'd remarked with a smirk I didn't like very much. Minnie had shot him a warning glance - evidently she hadn't wanted to discuss my recent rebellious streak.

I'd decided that was fine with me, so I'd just muttered "thanks," and pulled Minnie's chair from behind her desk so I could sit facing the couple.

Minnie had taken out a notebook and put it in her lap, moving her hands and murmuring an incantation over the page. When she'd finished, she'd looked up and said brightly, "Okay! I call the first meeting of the Iris Academy sophomore student council to order." As she'd said the words, they'd formed on the page in front of her in pretty, scrolled handwriting.

Jacob had looked at the page too. "Are you really taking minutes?" he'd asked. These words had appeared on the page as well.

Minnie's shoulders stiffened a little. "It's been brought to my attention," she'd said, "that operations were a bit disorganized last year. I thought having meetings with minutes would get us off to a good start."

Jacob had glared at me again, and I'd looked down at my hands. I'd considered that it might be a good time to apologize to Minnie for being so mean about Kyo the other week, but realized that if I did, it'd be immortalized in our meeting's minutes. I'd decided to do what I should have done in the first place - keep my big mouth shut.

Minnie had continued. "I thought we'd discuss our two upcoming fall events - the Dark Dance and the annual candle sale. Eliza, did Professor Terrec talk to you about what we're doing for the dance?"

"Oh - yeah, uh." I'd said. "He said we're doing decorations, so I did some research, and I thought we could do, like, a forest theme? Like pine branches coming down from the ceiling and-"

Minnie had cut me off with a smile that looked a bit forced. "That's _great_ Eliza, but Jake and I already talked about it and we decided on the decorations. We just need you to sign off on the costs."

"Oh," I'd said, feeling deflated.

"I mean, if you want to add anything-" Minnie had started, but I'd interrupted her.

"No, I'm sure it's fine," I'd said.

And had mostly been fine. Minnie and Jacob had settled on a "hanging garden" theme that involved garlands of flowers everywhere. This had struck me as being a little wrong for fall, but I hadn't said anything except that the cost of the flowers looked reasonable.

In fact, I hadn't said anything much for the rest of the meeting. I'd let Minnie continue with her agenda, smiled, nodded, and signed off on all the costs. And as I'd pretended to listen, my mind kept straying to the book hidden under my pillow.

When the meeting finally ended, I'd dashed back to my room. Ellen was there, putting the finishing touches on her white magic obstacle course. As usual, she was way ahead of me in her preparations.

I'd climbed into my bunk, which was looking more like a nest made of papers, books, pens and pencils. I'd dug under my pillow, unearthing _Traditions of Witcherie_ and flipping to the section on the Dark Dance.

I'd read the section over every night for the past few days, trying to figure out what about it had been making me so uneasy. I'd read it again, sitting there in my bunk.

_Those not wiſhing to be abducted ſouled tayke the precautionne of pinning a ſprigg of Hawthorne-leaves to their perſonne._

_Well at least I can do that - find some hawthorn leaves and make little corsages for everyone, maybe hand them out at the door_. It's probably just a dumb idea, but, I'd thought, it might make me feel better about the whole thing.

Then a thought had struck me, and without thinking, I'd said "hey - Ellen?"

Ellen had stopped her preparations and turned to me, with an expectant look on her face, as though she'd been waiting for me to address her.

"Yes, Eliza?" she'd said, in that cool, formal tone she's adopted whenever being forced to speak to me.

"You know how in old-timey books and manuscripts, they use an 'f' instead of an 's' sometimes?"

Whatever it was Ellen had been expecting me to say, this was apparently not it. Ellen had sighed, clicking her teeth with her tongue. "It's not an 'f,' it's a long 's'. It's leftover from German."

"Yeah - long 's', whatever - I was just wondering if you knew when people stopped using it."

Ellen had shrugged. "Early 19th century, I think," she'd said. Then she'd narrowed her eyes. "Why?"

It had taken all the willpower I had not to shove my book under my pillow - if I had, Ellen would certainly have known where to go rooting for clues. "Just curious," I'd said, trying to sound as casual as possible.

I'd waited for Ellen to let it drop, but she'd gone on staring at me until I'd finally snapped "what?" a bit more sharply than I'd meant to.

"Isn't there anything else you want to say to me?" Ellen had said.

I'd sighed. "Ellen, how many times am I supposed to apologize about that book? I'm sor-"

But Ellen hadn't let me finish. "Just _forget_ it," she'd said, and had gathered her books and stalked out of the room.

I'd watched the door slam behind her, feeling unexpectedly guilty, but also baffled. I couldn't for the life of me think of what I'd done to make Ellen so angry with me.

For comfort, I'd turned back to my book. Full of long "s" words - so although 1912 is the printing date, it must have been written long before - and must be against the library's rules. I'd stuffed the book into my pillow, which was now extremely lumpy, and a certain contributor to my recent bouts of insomnia. _Oh well - better to lose sleep than get expelled over a book_ , I'd reasoned.

And lose sleep was just what I had done. I'd rolled and tossed in my bed until I'd rivaled Virginia's ability to make noise in her sleep. It got so bad that by the time Saturday morning rolled around, it felt like a relief rather than a chore to haul myself out of bed to deliver the mail. And now, hiking up the mountain in the morning light, I feel blissfully alone for the first time in what seems like weeks.

I've never made my way up the road that leads up the mountain from Iris Academy. My running route is on the road that leads down the mountain to town, to the mall, to civilization. This upward road winds into increasing wilderness, getting narrower and narrower until I'm sure it wouldn't fit two cars side by side - not that I see any cars on this part of the road. Finally, the paving comes to an abrupt stop, but the path continues, first a slightly flattened gravel road, and then a hard-packed dirt trail that shows no sign of tire marks or footprints.

I continue along the path, stopping from time to time to examine promising-looking trees along the way. All of them are full of beautiful autumn colors, but none of them are hawthorns. Unperturbed, I continue wandering down the path as the tree canopy above me thickens, filtering the morning light until the earth before me is dappled with gold.

I'm just wondering whether I ought to turn back when an unusual color strikes my eye. Not the deep, jewel-like colors of autumn, but a bright, spring pink. Moving closer, I see the pink is sprouting from a single tree in the middle of a clearing ahead. I walk toward it, straying from the path and ducking under branches.

When I get to the clearing, I see what had caught my eye. The pink isn't incongruous spring blossoms, but little strips of cloth that have been tied to the branches of a squat tree. The tree has the clearing to itself, and spreads its branches horizontally, almost protectively, over a little stone well near its roots. The effect is charming - a hint of cultivation in the midst of the wilderness around me.

I step to the tree, check my botany book, and am pleasantly surprised when I find that the leaves on the little tree are a match - it's a hawthorn for sure. The leaves are just starting to turn, and will make very pretty corsages for everyone. _Guess I can contribute to the Dance after all_ , I think, and reach out to seize hold of a branch.

Immediately I pull my hand back, hissing in pain. A rivulet of blood is running down my palm toward my wrist. A closer inspection of the tree branch reveals the culprit - a huge, wickedly sharp thorn jutting out from the tree branch, right where I'd grasped it.

Fortunately for me, the wound isn't serious - just showy. I close it with a quick healing spell, and then open my botany book, trying not to splatter it with blood droplets. Sure enough, the entry on hawthorns reads: "One notable property of the hawthorn tree is its thorns, which can grow to extraordinary lengths, and exceeding sharpness."

 _Oh, right_ , I think, _what a genius not to realize that a hawthorn tree might have, you know,_ thorns _on it. This is some serious Oxford material right here, folks._

Still, I'm not about to be defeated by some dumb tree. I dip into my pocket and pull out the little blue enamel knife that was Damien's Initiation present to me. Holding the branch carefully to avoid the thorns, I begin to pare leaves from the branch. I move around the tree so as not to take too many leaves from any one place, and soon I've filled the shoebox that I brought with brightly colored hawthorn leaves. It's enough for about half the students, but I figure if I come back the next weekend, I'll easily be able to get enough leaves for the other half.

Satisfied, I decide to take a break, seating myself on one of the stones that form the little well. From here, I have a good vantage point to look at the hawthorn tree as a whole. The little pink strips of cloth tied to its branches are very interesting. Every single one is bright pink - or used to be bright pink. Some strips have faded to a pale blush, and others are now so ragged that they're nothing more than a group of threads that could be blown to bits by a stiff wind. Based on the color of the ribbons, I assume that this must be a special place for Professor Potsdam - hopefully she won't mind me borrowing a few leaves from her tree for a good cause. It certainly is a nice place to spend a late autumn morning, anyway.

I reach into my uniform pocket and pull out the envelope. For some reason, I feel more dread about reading this letter than usual. I don't want to know Hieronymous's excuse for not writing me last week. I don't want to open the envelope to reveal another bland, formulaic letter about how busy he is. I can feel the shade of that future girl, running across her college campus in half-embarrassed nostalgia over her silly high school crush - she seems closer than ever today.

 _Get it over with_ , I advise myself, and slit the top of the envelope open with the knife.

_Eliza,_

_Some weeks ago you wrote to me asking for information regarding your new professor, Yves Terrec. Although I did not respond at the time, I have not ignored your question. Rather, I did not have sufficient intelligence to provide you with a satisfactory response until now._

_It appears that M. Terrec has spent many years traveling between the continent, the United Kingdom and the Americas, acting as an adviser to the various magical councils on matters regarding safety and the use of magic. He is considered rather an expert, and while I have not met him myself, I detect his influence in council policy the more I learn of him._

_I can only assume that your headmistress has sought M. Terrec to serve in this new position in order to impose upon her students a sense of responsibility and respect for the powers they are currently learning to harness. If such is the case, I can only applaud her good sense, although to do such might be to assume facts not in evidence._

_However, there is one point upon which I must particularly insist. As my wife, I have said, you are not required to obey my orders. Please take this, then, as a very strong suggestion from a former instructor, and one who has seen a great deal more of the magical world than you._

_You, Eliza, are not to distinguish yourself in any negative fashion towards Professor Terrec. Do not place yourself in a position in which you will receive demerits or detentions of any kind, especially any detentions under his supervision. In fact, I would prefer that you did not distinguish yourself before Professor Terrec at all. This is not to say that I do not expect you to continue in your academic aspirations; rather, I do not wish him to have intelligence of our rather unique situation. If he is unfamiliar with the details of our arrangement, please do not enlighten him. I advise this, not to place any undue burden upon you, but to ensure that your education at Iris Academy - such as it is - continues without unnecessary interruption._

_I understand that you are currently questioning my reasons for advising you thus. For now, I cannot give you an answer that is likely to satisfy you. All I can ask is that you trust in my judgment._

_I shall be traveling for the better part of a fortnight and will not have the opportunity to write to you until my return. I hope to receive an acknowledgment that you will concede to my request in language that is not unduly inflammatory._

_Until such time, I remain,_

_Yours,_

_H._

I read the letter a second time.

I read the letter a third time.

Then I rip the letter in half.

_Who the hell does he think he is?_

I rip the letter into quarters.

 _Who the hell does he think_ I _am? Someone he can order around without ever explaining why? Sure he said it wasn't an order, but -_ you are not to distinguish yourself _\- sure sounds like an order to me._

I rip the letter into eighths.

_He's just like all the rest of them - Professor Potsdam, Mr. Underberg, Professor Terrec - they're not trying to educate us, they're just turning us into sheep who follow the rules without ever asking why. Well not me._

I rip the letter into sixteenths.

 _He doesn't even know what's going on around here. Asking me not to reveal our "arrangement?" Oh, you mean our marriage, that thing where you promised to, you know,_ protect _me? That thing that Professor Potsdam pretty much handed to Professor Terrec on a platter by putting my title in the school register? He has no idea._

 _Well whose fault is that?_ a small voice in the back of my head pipes up, and I stiffen in mid-rip. That's a good point. I've been writing Hieronymous that everything at school has been perfectly fine, when in reality, it's anything but.

_He can't protect you if you keep lying to him, you know._

I rip the letter into thirty-seconds. _Doesn't matter. Here or there, he'd be the same, just telling me what to do without saying why. Because it's the rules. Well I'm sick of following the rules._

I drop the letter pieces into the well where they float on the surface of the water. The sight if them irritates me, so with a gesture I turn the scraps into pebbles, and watch as they sink into the depths. Then I stand, gather my shoebox, and start to walk back to the road.

_You don't want me to "distinguish" myself in front of Professor Terrec? Shows what you know. Professor Terrec isn't going to forget me anytime soon if I have anything to say about it._

I know I have to do _something_ \- something to show Professor Terrec that I'm serious about what I said during school elections, something to prove that I'm not just going to keep my head down and let him - them, all of them - bully students into following the rules without question. But I still have no idea what to do. And try as I might as I trudge down the mountain path, I can't come up with any good ideas.

_I'm just not good at this, I think. I wish I could just... I don't know. Crowdsource it or something. But I don't know anyone who's good at-_

And then a thought hits me so suddenly that I stop in the middle of the road, clutching my shoebox to my chest.

I take off toward Iris Academy at a run, and I don't stop - or even slow down - until I'm at the entrance to Wolf Hall.


	13. Chapter 13

"I want to commission a prank."

Donald Danson props his elbows on his desk and tents his fingers. "Is that right?" he says. At the moment, he reminds me of nothing so much as Marlon Brando in The Godfather.

"Yeah," I say, suddenly nervous.

"What did you have in mind?

"Well," I say, "I want to target Professor Terrec - prank him, I mean. Not that I want to hurt him," I add hurriedly. "I don't want it to be so bad that it hurts anyone, but I want it to be big enough that nobody can ignore it - and that it makes him look ridiculous. Oh - and I can't get caught. I mean, nobody should get caught, but I don't want anything that lets Professor Terrec trace the prank to me."

"Hmm," Donald says, looking up at the ceiling. "That's a pretty tall order, duchess."

"Viscountess."

"Whatever," Donald says with a waspish glance. Then he's all professionalism again, pursing his mouth. "What I want to know is, what's it worth to you?"

Damn - money. I hadn't thought of that. It's been two Saturdays since I spent all my allowance on the elections. "We-ell," I start, "I can give you a ten dollar deposit and then... the rest of my allowance until winter break?"

Donald frowns.

"Spring break!" I blurt, already regretting it, but feeling as though I don't have a choice.

"Oh, uh," Donald says, and suddenly he drops his assured Godfather-ish look. His ears turn that shade of aubergine that he takes on when he's embarrassed. "I didn't exactly mean money."

"Okay," I say, my optimism returning. "Well... Tell me what you mean and maybe we can work something out."

The aubergine color in Donald's ears suddenly spreads to the rest of his face, and I wait for him, trying not to smile.

"Do you think you could talk to Ellen for me?" he asks.

"Um. Well, Ellen and I aren't exactly speaking to each other right now."

Donald looks so despondent at this disclosure that I think even if I hadn't been trying to get something out of him, I would have backpedaled. "Look, why don't you tell me what's up and I'll see what I can do," I offer.

He considers this, and I try not to squirm in my seat with impatience.

Finally he says "okay. But if either Luke or Logan hear about this, the deal's off."

I've never had much occasion to speak to either of the twins, so I have no problems raising my right hand and saying "I won't tell the Pheiffers anything, promise."

Donald relaxes back into his chair. "So you know Ellen and I hung out a lot last year? Like, in chorale and stuff?"

I hadn't known this, actually, but I nod.

"Well, I mean, she's just a great girl. Fun, and smart, and interesting, and pretty-" he cuts himself off, suddenly aware he's being effusive, and I bite down on the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. "Anyway, I asked her to the May ball with me. Just as friends," he adds, quickly. "But I thought that maybe... Well. We didn't really get a chance to talk that much. And then going home the next day, all the packing, and Virginia lost her favorite pajama set - it was a total mess."

With a jolt, I remember that day - the frenzy of uniforms flying from wardrobe to suitcase, Virginia's panic at losing her pajamas, the frantic search that I'd participated in - I'd even been the one to find the pajamas, which had been balled up and stuck between Virginia's bed frame and the wall. But I'd felt all day that I was floating in a pink cloud of perfect happiness, that none of the chaos below me could reach me up there. It hurts, now, to think about it, so I wrench my focus back to Donald's story.

"And then William's graduation ceremony, and getting him to his apprenticeship..." Donald sighs. I thought I'd have to wait til fall to talk to her again, but then Virginia invited Ellen to stay for a week over the summer."

"Oh," I say, trying not to show my jealousy at not being invited myself.

Fortunately Donald doesn't seem to notice. He continues. "So I thought, 'yes! This is my chance!' And when I got her alone I asked her out on a date. And she said yes!" he gives me a huge grin at this, and I can't help grinning back.

"That's fantastic!" I say, happy that I don't have to fake my enthusiasm. "Where did you go?"

Donald's face falls. "We didn't," he says. "Ellen told Virginia about it, and Virginia just flipped out. She was screaming at me for hours, accusing me of stealing her friends."

"That's pretty rough," I say, although I think I can sympathize with both sides of this story. It's not great for Donald to have his chance at love cut off by his jealous sister, true, but it's also not very much fun for Virginia to invite her friend to stay with her, and then spend the whole time watching Ellen make googly eyes at her brother.

"Ellen finally got her calmed down," Donald continues, "but you can bet we didn't go on any date. And now they're both avoiding me. So I just wanna know if Ellen really doesn't like me anymore or if she's just doing this so that Urchin doesn't get pissy with her."

"So you want me to ask her," I conclude, and Donald nods, relief showing in his face.

I sigh, wondering how on earth I'm supposed to get out if this one. If there's one question I do not want to be asking Ellen right now, it's this one.

"Look," I start slowly. "I want to help you. I mean, even if I hadn't been asking for a prank, I'd want to help. But I don't think I'm the right person to ask Ellen that stuff."

Donald's frown returns, and a line forms between his eyebrows. "Really?"

"Here's the thing," I say. "I don't claim to speak for all girls everywhere. But if it were me? I'd want you to ask me yourself."

"That's kinda hard when you won't even say two words to me at chorale," Donald grouses.

I grin in what I hope is a reassuring way. "Too many opportunities to give you the slip! Maybe you should get her alone somewhere. Now that I can help with."

"Yeah?" Donald asks.

"Sure. Next time we're alone in our room I'll send you a farspeak spell, tell you to come over, and then wait around for you to show up. When you do, I invite you in, then leave, and - voila!"

I finish with what I hope is a whimsical flutter of hands. Donald doesn't crack a smile, but after a pause he says "I guess."

"All right!" I say with a grin. "So what're you gonna do for the prank?"

"Hey," Donald interrupts, beginning to smile himself. "I thought you said you didn't wanna get caught? You don't get to know anything about what's gonna go down until it happens. Maybe not even then."

I'm a little disappointed by this, but I have to admit that Donald has a good point. "Fiiiine," I sigh.

"Don't worry," he says, "My associates and I will handle everything." He's back to his Godfather confidence. I half expect to see him pick up a cat and begin stroking it.

"Thanks," I say, and get up to leave.

I'm halfway to the door when I hear Donald say "hey," behind me, and I turn. "So," he says, "I dunno what happened between you and Ellen? But you might want to give her another chance. She was the one defending you to Urchin over the summer."

I furrow my brow at this, and Donald quickly adds "I don't mean Virginia was saying bad stuff about you behind your back but - well, you know how she is. Relationship stuff squicks her out. You should have heard her when Minnie and Jacob got together."

"In her defense, those two are extra squicky," I say, relaxing a bit.

Donald snorts. "Yep," he says. "But anyway, with Grabby it's worse, cuz he's old and a teacher and stuff. I think she just had a mental image of the two of you acting all lovey like Minnie and Jacob, and it set her off a little."

I have to laugh at this. "Okay, yeah, that is pretty gross."

"Ellen was just trying to tell her that it was okay, and she didn't think it was like that with you. Like, he isn't taking advantage of you or anything."

I don't feel like getting into who may or may not be taking advantage of whom in the context of my marriage, so I just say "oh. That's nice of her."

"She's a great girl, like I said," Donald affirms. "Just talk to her. It'll be okay."

Somehow I doubt this, but I just smile at Donald and say "thanks. Happy pranking," and head out the door.

Between my prank commission and the exams coming up that Friday, I'm completely on edge the whole rest of the week. Even Ahmed, who's an indifferent studier at best, notices that I'm paying less attention to our studies than he is.

"You're not using any concentration spells on yourself, are you?" he asks me one evening while I'm attempting to cram the last month's worth of green magic lessons into my exhausted brain. "Damien told me those are okay to use in the short term, but they start giving you pretty nasty side effects if you use them for too long."

"Nope!" I say, trying to sound cheerful but only managing to sound harried. "Just good old fashioned adrenaline for me."

"Well you should probably take a break before you get sick," Ahmed says.

"I'll take a break this weekend."

"No you won't, you have that dance to set up," Ahmed points out. This is true - the 31st is next Monday, meaning we have to have our decorations at least assembled before Monday afternoon - and I need to take another trip to my hawthorn tree for more leaves.

"It won't take me all weekend. I'll sleep in Sunday." When Ahmed gives me a skeptical look from under his eyebrows, I say "c'mon - quiz me on the hand positions for the new healing and strength spells from last week."

"We're not gonna need those," Ahmed groans. "They take too long anyway, just regular healing is gonna be fine."

"Quiz me anyway," I insist.

But as it turns out, Ahmed was right about not needing the intermediate spells for the exam. On Friday morning during breakfast, there's an announcement for everyone to meet in the auditorium as soon as the meal is finished. My breakfast seems to slosh around in my stomach as Ahmed, Suki and I dutifully troop out of the cafeteria with the other students.

Once everyone is seated and reasonably quiet, Professor Potsdam sweeps up one of the aisles, and bounds up the stage, giving us all her brilliant grin as she takes the podium. "Good morning starshines!" she says. "I'm afraid I have a bit of bad news for everyone this morning." She pauses as the remaining talk dies down. "Unfortunately, the examinations scheduled for today have had to be canceled."

There's a long silence as the students take in the announcement. Then someone lets out a muffled whoop, and the auditorium begins to fill with cheers. Ahmed and Suki both clap, but I don't - I can only glance around at the rest of the students. More than a few of them are craning their necks themselves - looking at me.

Professor Potsdam takes the students' cheers in without turning a hair - she only smiles sweetly, waiting for the commotion to die down before continuing. "Yes, yes, it is nice to have another week to study, isn't it? But I must warn you that we will be taking that into an account when we plan the make-up exams for next Friday!"

Any remaining cheering halts at this news, and is replaced by some muttered grumbles. I continue to look over the crowd as subtly as I can, but I don't see Donald - or either of the Pheiffer twins, for that matter - anywhere. My breakfast takes another flip, and I have to swallow hard.

"Now, as we have not scheduled classes for the day, this means that you all will have some free time. I must suggest that you keep to your residence halls as much as possible, however, as we are still clearing up the tentacles from the halls leading to the dungeons." She flashes her brilliant smile. "Have a blessed day!"

Evidently, we're dismissed. I stand and start to make my way up the aisle, still glancing around me for any glimpse of Donald or his friends. God, what if they got caught, what if they got expelled because of me? The thought horrifies me - I'd had such confidence in Donald's abilities that I hadn't even considered that he'd gotten caught right away.

As I exit the double doors leading from the auditorium, someone suddenly steps into my path - Professor Terrec.

"Miss Moon," he says, serene as ever, "may I have a word with you in my office, please?"

My heart stops in my chest, and it's all I can do to mutter "yes, sir," I have time to glance back at Ahmed and Suki, who give me a pair of baffled looks, before I'm led down the hall by Professor Terrec.

They gave me up! is all I can think as I walk down the corridor, Professor Terrec close to heel. They gave me up to save themselves, those jerks!

But as we near the teachers' hallway, I see Donald, Luke and Logan, heading in the opposite direction. I don't dare try a farspeak spell with Professor Terrec so close at hand - he'd be able to sense it and listen in on the conversation - but I see Donald jerk his chin at me and smile. He wouldn't smile at me if he gave me up - right?

Professor Terrec opens the door to his office and motions for me to enter. "Sit down, if you please," he says, so I take the seat before his desk. He takes his own seat and gives me a measured stare. I meet his eyes, despite the fact that my breakfast is attempting to claw its way back up my esophagus.

"Miss Moon, what have you done?" he asks.

"I don't know what you mean," I reply, still holding his gaze.

"It will save a great deal of time and aggravation if you simply inform me what you were doing between three-thirty and five o'clock this morning."

"Oh," I say. "Sure. I was asleep."

Professor Terrec sighs - all for show, I'm certain. "I have asked you twice, and will ask you one final time. I will be clear about my question in order to ensure that you understand. However, if you do not reply with the answer that I seek, you will find the consequences very unpleasant."

"And what if the answer you seek is different from the truth?" I retort.

Professor Terrec doesn't give any indication he's heard what I've just said. "How did you manage to sabotage the final examinations that were to take place in the dungeons today?" he asks.

"I didn't sabotage anything," I reply, enunciating clearly. "I was asleep."

Professor Terrec is still for a beat, then lifts his hands, muttering under his breath. I have just enough wherewithal to see that the base gestures of the complicated looking spell Professor Terrec is about to cast is the spell for empathy - but that this spell is far more complex and advanced than any I know.

Damn, is all I have time to think before the spell hits.

When we'd first learned the empathy spell during white magic classes last year, Professor Potsdam had been adamant about one thing - that we never use the spell without the target's permission. We'd paired off during class to practice requesting consent, then casting the spell on each other. When Virginia had successfully cast empathy on me, I'd felt a pleasant tingling sensation in my scalp, sort of like the effects of one of those spider-shaped wire massaging tools. As the tingling had intensified, I could feel Virginia sharing - not thoughts, exactly, but feelings that I was feeling at that moment. Even so, at the time, I'd been keeping my marriage - something that was on my mind a great deal - under wraps, so while the effects of the spell remained, I'd very carefully thought of anything but Professor Grabiner. Virginia, to my knowledge, hadn't sensed a thing.

So when Professor Terrec's spell hits me, and I feel the same tingling sensation, I know I have to empty my mind of anything related to my request to Donald - which, of course, makes it even harder not to think about. The exams, I think instead. I'm disappointed the exams aren't getting held today me and Ahmed studied so hard all week for them I'd rather get it over with we're definitely going to need those intermediate healing spells now better drill them some more this coming week

Instead of dissipating, the tingling begins to get more intense - and less pleasant. Little pricks of pain begin to surface on my scalp, feeling like wires digging into my skin.

And it's going to be a hard week I'll be useless on Tuesday after the Dark Dance going to be such a pain Minnie and Jacob are so annoying and their stupid ideas who does a hanging garden in the fall anyway completely lame my forest idea was much better and

Professor Terrec is still staring at me over the desk, and as sudden as a pop, I feel him there - in my head, searching around. But he's clumsy, turning over thoughts at random, rummaging, slapdash. It makes me feel sick, like my head is bulging and sinking in places as he moves through. The pain of it is intensifying, feeling less like wires now and more like taloned claws sinking into my skull. I lift my hands to touch my scalp, but there's nothing moving or bulging, and Professor Terrec is still staring at me.

"Stop," I say, and it comes out in a small, weak voice that I barely recognize as mine. "Stop, it hurts."

The Professor Terrec in front of me doesn't seem to hear. He doesn't move or acknowledge the fact that I'd spoken to him. But the Professor Terrec in my head begins moving faster, turning things over, restless, impatient, not finding whatever it is he's looking for. The claws in my head grasp, flex, shift the matter inside my head, and I press my hands against my skull trying to keep them from tearing my brain apart. And with every scrap of strength I possess, I block him out.

I don't know what you're talking about I didn't do anything please stop I was asleep all night stop I don't know anything about it been studying all week for the exams had no idea they would be canceled what are the tentacles anyway you're hurting me stop you're hurting me STOP HELP HIERONYMOUS-

And just like that, it all comes flooding to the surface - all my memories of Hieronymous Grabiner, from the day I'd slammed into him on the first day of school to the class elections, from him catching me at the candle sale to the tiny flick as he thought of me during the Christmas spell. They flash through the forefront of my mind - the manus, our wedding day, our tentative advances, us growing closer. The kiss during the May Day ball - the awkward pass on the sofa in London - my first meeting with the late Lord Montague. I feel Professor Terrec's scrutiny intensifying as he takes in the rest - the strange meeting of the magical society, Lord Montague grabbing me by the chin in his library, my passage into the Otherworld to find Lord Montague about to kill his own son - and then my lying before him on the altar and Professor Potsdam appearing in a blaze of light - the splatter on the wall-

Professor Terrec pulls himself out of my head so abruptly that I yelp with the sudden, searing pain of it. I bury my head in my arms, trying to press my skull back into shape. When I manage to look up, I see that Professor Terrec is still staring at me with a strange expression - half satisfaction, half disgust.

"I don't pretend to understand how one can exist in such a primitive mind," he says, as I massage my temples. "It seems so limiting. You poor thing."

"I - what-" is all I can manage. My head is starting to pulse with what's sure to become a monstrous headache.

"Very well," he says, as though I had come out with a coherent response. "I cannot prove that you had anything to do with this incident. But the next time you place a single toe out of line, I promise that you will face the punishment to which you are due."

And then, for the first time I've seen him do so, he smiles.

"Go," he says.

I go, dragging myself out of the chair and out the door, walking down the hall with one hand still pressed to my temple, weaving as the throb in my head turns first to sound, and then to pain. I feel as though my brains have been scrambled and dumped, sizzling, on a plate.

When I get to my room, both Ellen and Virginia are sitting on Virginia's bed, laughing about something. I ignore both of them, crossing instead to the window and drawing the curtain. Ellen and Virginia go quiet as I cross back to my bunk bed and start to climb up.

"Are you okay?" Virginia asks, when I'm halfway up.

I have to finish climbing before I trust myself to answer.

"No," I say. "I'm going to bed."

"It's ten in the morning," Ellen says.

I don't answer. I just lie down and press my pillow - stuffed as it is with the detritus of the year so far - over my head until I manage to fall asleep.


	14. Chapter 14

I wake to a prodding sensation in my head that sends me into a panic. I thrash at the bedclothes, nearly falling off of my bunk before I realize that I'm in my own bed. The room is dark, empty and silent.

The prodding continues, and I slowly realize it's someone trying to connect with me through a farspeak spell. I hesitate but decide to allow the connection - it can't be Professor Terrec - at least I don't think so.

When I permit the connection, a voice in my head says _hey_.

At first I think it's Ahmed - and I'm a little confused, because he always comes to my room if he wants to talk. But then I realize - it's Donald.

_Oh hey. King of pranks._

_You like that one?_ Both satisfaction and palpable relief in his thoughts. _I thought you were in for it when I saw you with the Evil Prince but Urchin said you came back to the room. You okay?_

_Yeah - just felt kind of dizzy after he - should we be talking about this?_

_Relax, I'm in my room. No way he's close enough to be able to tap in at this distance, and anyway, we'd know if he did._

_Oh. Well that's good, I guess._

_You sure you're okay?_

_Yeah, fine, I just woke up._ And it's true that I do feel a lot better. The headache from this morning is now just a dull throb, and feels more like an effect of sleeping through the day than anything else. _Did he interrogate you any?_

_Oh yeah - for a while. But don't worry, I didn't crack. I only get caught when I want to get caught, you know._

_And he didn't - like - use any weird spells on you or anything?_

_No, just kept asking me what I knew about what happened. What do you mean weird spells?_

_Nothing_ , I think hurriedly. _I just started feeling funny when he was asking me questions. But I didn't crack either._

 _We make a good team!_ Donald says in my head, and I try to project a happy thumbs-up sort of emotion at him.

 _So I just wanted to make sure we had a deal,_ he continues. _I was thinking maybe I could talk to Ellen this week? I know it's not supposed to be, like, romantic or anything, but I might ask her to the Dark Dance…_

It takes me a minute to remember what he's talking about. _Right! Sure, soon as we're alone I'll let you know. Good luck._

_Thanks. You too._

I don't know how to respond to this, so I just cut off the mental connection and roll onto my back. It's dark in the room, not even any light shining through the drawn curtain. I've slept through the whole day. And - I realize - I'm starving. A glance at the clock shows me I have fifteen minutes left until the cafeteria closes, so I race down my bunk and out the door.

I get to the cafeteria just in time to snag what looks like the burnt end of a pork roast, some lukewarm macaroni and cheese and some soggy brussels sprouts. Neither Suki nor Ahmed is at our usual table - they must have finished dinner a while back - so I cross the room to sit by myself.

As I'm walking, though, the room quiets as the remaining students who are finishing their dinners turn to stare at me. By the time I'm halfway to the table, the only sound is my footsteps on the lino tile.

When someone starts to clap, the sound is thin and high, nearly disappearing in the poor acoustics of the space. But I still whip my head to find the source. I don't manage to find the person who started the applause before another person joins in, and then another. Soon, the stragglers of the cafeteria are all clapping, some even cheering a bit, and one even yelling "north star!"

I don't have any idea how to respond to this sudden show, so I just seat myself at the far corner facing the wall, and focus on shoving as much food into myself as I can before I start to feel sick.

The weekend is, fortunately for me, uneventful. Despite a lot of tossing in my bed on Friday night, I manage to get up for my usual Saturday mail delivery, though I'm not very happy to be up. I'm already regretting ripping up Hieronymous's last letter - not only because an increasingly vocal part of me is convinced that I ought to have followed his advice, but because I know I won't be receiving another letter this week. Bland and disappointing as his letters have been, I'm still despondent knowing that I won't be receiving one at all.

But as I'm sorting the mail, I start at seeing an envelope addressed to "Eliza Moon." But it's written in regular pen, not magical appearing ink, and the hand is rounded and with little loops on some of the letters - definitely girly. I drop the rest of the packet of mail I'm sorting, pull out my pocket knife and slit the envelope, wondering who on earth would be writing me.

_Dear Eliza,_

_Hi... I guess you are wondering why I am writing to you or maybe you have forgotten about me? I'm Tabby and I met you over the summer when my Gran died._

Suddenly I'm all attention - what with the events of the school year, I had forgotten that I'd asked Tabby to write to me following her thirteenth birthday, which I think I remember was at the beginning of October. I had the feeling - more than a feeling - that she'd be presented with the Choice, and that she might want to hear about what was going to happen to her in her future.

_Anyway, you said write to you if anything unusual happened around my birthday so... I am writing because something weird did happen and I'm not sure what to think about it. You remember I told you then that I could tell things sometimes. Well the strangest thing happened to me around my birthday when I turned thirteen. It might sound stupid to you actually but I am very worried about it and hoped that maybe you could help me figure out what to do. Ever since my birthday, that bit of me that could just tell things... it hasn't been working. It's like it was just switched off and one day I could tell things, and one day I couldn't. I don't know what to do cos I have been able to do that my whole life and now I can't I_ _don't know_ _feel like I am not special any more or something. I wanted to know is this the odd thing you meant when you said I should write you, and if it is, what should I do?_

_I think that maybe you are a witch like my Gran and your_ _cousin_ _something that Lord too so maybe you could help get my telling back._

_Please write me._

_Sincerely,_

_Tabby_

I stare at the letter, open mouthed, not quite understanding. Tabby wouldn't have said no to the Choice - would she?

No, of course not - nobody would say no to being able to do magic - even with the sometimes strange consequences it brings. I remember back to my own thirteenth birthday - the strange ebullience I had been feeling all that day, then playing tag at my birthday party, feeling like I could run until the world ended, then jump straight into the air and fly. And fly I had - right over the hedge, to the shock of my fellow players. There was no way I could have said no to the power, the possibility that had suddenly come into my grasp. It was my birthright, after all. And Tabby - she had known, instinctively that her own Gran had the power to choose that too. But Mrs. Craft had been prevented from making the Choice, and had spent the rest of her life searching for that lost chance at magic.

_There's no way Tabby would have said no. No way._

So someone or something prevented her from making her Choice, and her magic got shut off - that's the only explanation I can think of. And what am I supposed to do? I can't write back to explain things - that would get me in way more trouble than I'm already in. But I can't just leave Tabby with no answer either.

 _I'll have to think about it_ , I decide, folding the letter into as small a square as possible and shoving it into my pocket.

I do think, but I'm unable to come up with any satisfactory answer all weekend - mostly because I have to frantically cram as many spells into my head as I can in order to prepare for the upcoming final. I'm losing two full school days prior to Friday's rescheduled exams, since I'm excused from classes to set up on Monday, and classes are canceled on Tuesday. I do make sure to take time to hang around my room and scout for a good opportunity to invite Donald to take his chance with Ellen.

My chance comes on Sunday evening. I get back to the room from dinner relatively early - after receiving another enormous blue envelope in the mail on Saturday, Ahmed's been morose and taciturn all weekend, so we didn't chat after dinner as we usually do. I find Ellen alone in our room, engrossed in a red magic textbook.

"Where's Virginia?" I ask, trying to sound casual.

Ellen looks up, annoyed at the interruption. "Sports club admin meeting with Anisha. Why do you care?"

"Just curious," I say, hopping into my bunk. Once I'm there, I fire off a farspeak spell to Donald. _Hey - get over here. Now's your chance!_

 _What?_ Is the panicky response I get in return. _Now? I mean - can't you give me some time to fix my hair or, like, put on cologne or something?_

 _Donald, Ellen has lived at the same boarding school as you for an entire year, and she's stayed at your house twice. She knows what your hair looks like. If you wanna ask her to the dance, get your butt over here_ now _._

Donald cuts off the connection, and I begin to worry that I've offended him so much that he isn't going to come over at all. My worries are assuaged, however, when there's a knock on the door.

"Hey!" I say, upon opening the door to Donald's ashen face. "Thanks for volunteering to decorate for the Dark Dance with me. C'mon in."

Donald does, trying unsuccessfully to flatten his normally unruly spiked hair in the process. I seat him in my desk chair, next to Ellen who is studiously ignoring both of us.

"So I will just go get my notebook," I say. "Which I left. In the library. So I will be right back." And before Ellen can protest this, I dash out the door.

I stay in the library for an hour and a half, rummaging through the history textbooks to see if I can find another one that's older than what we're supposed to be reading. My search is, however, unsuccessful. When I get back to the room, Virginia's back, and Ellen has already gone to bed. This doesn't strike me as a particularly good sign, so I decide against farspeaking Donald to ask how everything went.

I dread having to wake up on Monday morning, when I'll have to spend the entire day watching Minnie and Jacob hang all over each other and kissing when they think no one is looking. But when I get to the gym, it seems as though Minnie and Jacob have had some kind of fight. They're both here, using levitation spells to hang their garlands from the ceiling, but they don't talk to each other unless forced to, and then only in clipped phrases. At first it's refreshing, and I hum a satisfied little tune to myself as I strew a mix of freshly fallen autumn leaves and chrysanthemum petals onto the gym floor - grudgingly admitting to myself that the combination is very pretty. But after a few hours it starts to get grating, having to relay messages from Jacob to Minnie and back again because each refuses to speak directly to the other.

The junior and senior members of the student council are also present - the juniors here to create a dim, amorphous glowing light to lead the students to the gym, and to create the constant, nipping autumn breeze. This latter spell seems complicated, and takes all four juniors some time to get exactly right - they get it too strong at first, and it blows all of my leaves to one side of the room so that I have to re-strew them all again with a breeze spell of my own. The seniors have set up a sort of band in the corner - drums mostly, but there are a few strange-looking instruments in the mix. I see a red-headed girl with a hammer dulcimer, and a boy with pale green-gray hair and wire rimmed glasses with a bulky instrument that I can't identify, but which he plays by sitting it in his lap turning a crank.

Once I finish sweeping the leaves out again, I edge toward the musicians, who have launched into a riotous sort of song. They seem to be having a nice time practicing, and it does cheer me up to watch them play. I find myself looking forward to the dance itself for the first time all month. The boy with the wire rimmed glasses and the bulky instrument looks up and catches me watching, then gives me a shy smile. I smile back before I realize what I'm doing, feel my face go hot, and scuttle away without looking back.

 _It's too bad_ , I catch myself thinking. _He was kind of cute_. _Maybe he would have been a nice normal boyfriend._ Just thinking this seems somehow mutinous, so I do my best to shove the thought out of my head.

Everyone finishes the setup by dinnertime, and as the light from the windows at Iris begins to fade, I have to admit that the overall effect of the decorations have transformed the gym from the huge utilitarian space into a mysterious garden that seems full of interesting little nooks and hidden recesses. Satisfied, I follow the rest of the student council students to the cafeteria where we all gulp down our dinner, and then run back to the gym.

I set myself up by the door with my shoebox of hawthorn leaves, which I've magicked to include a little safety pin at the stem so that people can wear them on their robes. As students enter the gym, I begin to shove leaves into their hands - which begins to get more and more difficult as the last remnants of evening light fade, and the only way to see is by the glow of the juniors' spell. "Complimentary Dark Dance corsage! Please take one as you go in!"

I'm about halfway through my second box of leaves when a voice near me says "hey, Eliza."

"Donald, hey - here's your corsage, it's got a pin to put on your uniform-"

"Thanks," he says, not sounding particularly grateful. I squint into the dimness around us, but I don't see any shadows nearby that could be Ellen.

"So," I say, "no luck huh?"

"Why didn't you tell me that Ellen asked William to the Dark Dance last year?" Donald snaps.

"Ohh..." I say. I hadn't told him because I'd completely forgotten about it - Ellen's crush on Donald and Virginia's big brother, her attempt to ask him out - and what he'd said to her when she had.

"She told me that since Virginia's her roommate, that makes her practically my sister," Donald says, "and that it'd be way too weird for us to date."

"What about her saying she'd go on a date with you over the summer?" I ask, shoving a handful of leaves at another group of students without looking at them.

"She said it was a mistake," Donald says glumly, "and that she likes me, but she doesn't like me _that_ way."

"Sorry," I say, "but you did give it a shot. And you got your answer, so you don't have to wonder anymore, so that's... good?"

Donald snorts. "If it wasn't for Virginia, she'd have said yes," he says. "I'm sick of everyone just doing what Virginia wants because she's too much of a baby not to get her own way all the time!"

"I don't really know if that's it - here you go! Dark Dance corsage, please pin it to your uniform! I mean, Ellen has to live with Virginia, and we have the final to deal with so we need to get along - here you go! Enjoy the dance! I've already caused enough trouble, I think Ellen just wants to keep things as peaceful as possible."

"I guess," Donald says, but he doesn't sound convinced. "Well. Thanks for trying."

"Yeah," I say. "Sorry." I watch Donald melt into the rest of the crowd as he goes inside the gym.

Once most of the students are inside, the teachers arrive, shepherding latecomers before them. The teachers all happily take a hawthorn leaf corsage, except for Professor Terrec. He looks down his nose at my proffered leaf, then picks it up between a thumb and forefinger, as though he's handling something slimy with a dubious number of legs. I find myself holding my breath as he twists his fingers, twirling the stem until the leaf blurs in my vision.

Then, as quickly as he'd picked it up, Professor Terrec drops the leaf back into my box. "Thank you, Miss Moon," he says, his voice distant and calm. "I require no such ornamentation." With that, he sweeps into the gym.

Professor Potsdam is the last to arrive. "Oh my dear! How lovely - and old fashioned!" she exclaims when I hand her a hawthorn leaf. "Where on earth did you get such an idea?"

"Oh I just... heard about it somewhere," I say, hoping she won't guess about the book I'd found in the library. "The colors are really pretty."

"Ye-es..." Professor Potsdam says, twirling the leaf in her fingers and examining the stem. "Eliza dear, you didn't _cut_ the leaves from this tree, did you?"

"Uh, yes," I say. "Why?"

"Oh _no_ ," she says, turning a worried face to me. "Don't you knew it's terrible luck to cut a hawthorn tree when it isn't blooming?"

"N-no," I stammer, shocked. "It's supposed to be tradition, right? Why would it be bad luck if it's tradition?"

"Oh gosling," Professor Potsdam says, "it's tradition to wait until the leaves fall from the tree to collect them for the Dark Dance! You can't simply take measures into your own hands with this sort of thing, you know!"

"Oh," is all I can say.

Professor Potsdam reaches down and pats my cheek in a comforting way. "Not to worry sweeting, I'm sure you'll be quite equal to whatever horrible misfortune is going to befall you. Enjoy the dance!" And with a dazzling smile, she's gone.

I stare after her into the gym, my heart sinking into my stomach. All I'd wanted to do was give everyone a nice night, and now I have to contend with a horrible misfortune? If there's anything that makes me _not_ want to dance, this has got to be it.

Even so, after I make sure there's no one else coming down the halls, I squeeze into the gym. It's packed with jostling bodies, everyone whispering and giggling over the band, and stumbling into each other as they dance. I try to join in, moving slowly and carefully so as not to knock into anyone, but I feel separated from the entire rest of the school. Last year, I'd felt like part of something. I'd linked hands, I'd brushed past bodies, I'd swayed with everyone to the same rhythm. Now I just feel out of sync, with no one around me who understands how I feel.

But then it hits me, and I stop dancing - someone bumps into me and gives a muffled squeak. There is one person who knows how I feel - Ahmed. I didn't see him come into the gym, so he must be in his room. I've finished all the stuff that I have to do for the dance - no one is going to mind if I duck out and spend the rest of the night with my one real friend.

I make my way to the gym doors, jostling dancers and even stepping on someone's foot on my way out. Once I'm in the corridor, the whole school feels eerily silent, the muffled sounds of the band and dancers dampened as the doors close behind the party. I set off towards Toad Hall, trying to ignore the shiver in my intestines as I go.

When I get to Ahmed's door, there's no answer. I wait, knock, wait, knock again, but there isn't even any movement behind the door. It's too early for him to go to sleep - did he go to the dance after all?

Well, there is one way I can find out where he went. I cast a track scent spell, and immediately detect two strong scents leading from Ahmed's door. One is that goatish unwashed sheet smell - uch, it must be Orrin - and one is a mix of black tea, buttered toast, and the lavender brilliantine that Ahmed uses in his hair. Both scents lead in the same direction toward the main building - the classrooms and the gym - but Ahmed's is much fresher smelling. He can't have been out of his room for very long.

I follow Ahmed's trail through the halls, and find myself grow anxious when it goes right past the gym - not even a little pool of scent to indicate that he paused in the doorway - and continues toward the classrooms. _He couldn't have snuck out- not after he promised me that he wouldn't - right?_

Suddenly I lose the scent and have to back track before finding it again - heading toward one of the classrooms. _Why would he be in here? I hope he's not sick or something_ , I think as I push the door in.

It's a little too dark to see in the classroom, but enough ambient light from the gym and hallways filters through the open door that I'm able to see a figure silhouetted against one of the windows - seeming to be huddled over itself. Worried, I step into the room.

"Hey Ahmed, are you okay? I've been looking for you ev-"

Before I can finish, the figure suddenly straightens - too tall to be Ahmed, and too thick, and somehow the wrong shape. A sudden flare of light erupts from where the figure is standing, temporarily blinding me with the glare. I rub my eyes, squinting against the light - and then I freeze. The light has illuminated not one face, but two. The first is Ahmed, looking pale and frightened in the harsh glare of the light. And the second face is blue, fringed with violet, with a murderous glare in its eyes.

"Damien?" I say.


	15. Chapter 15

"Well look who's here," says Damien Ramsey. His voice, even while trembling with fury, still holds a sort of cold charm. "It's my little freshman. The ice princess. You're interrupting, ice princess."

"You're not supposed to be here," I reply. "Professor Potsdam expelled you."

Damien smiles mirthlessly at this. "As though a little thing like that could keep me away," he says, and runs a hand through Ahmed's hair in a way that makes me extremely uncomfortable.

"Don't touch him!" I blurt.

It's now that Ahmed seems to find his voice - and to my shock, he uses it to yell at me.

"Jeez, Eliza, what the hell is your problem?!"

I gawk at Ahmed. "How can you even ask me that?" I shout. "After what he did last spring? He-"

"I _know_ what he did," Ahmed snaps back. "I was kind of there? But you know who wasn't there? _You_ , so just leave it alone!"

Tears spring in my eyes - is he right? Should I leave the room and let them get on with - well, whatever it is they're doing here? It just doesn't seem right.

Damien scoffs at my obvious distress. "Don't worry, ice princess," he says. "Once I've gotten what I came for, I don't think I'll have to bother with this little school again."

To my surprise, this statement causes Ahmed to wriggle free from under Damien's arm. "I told you," he said, "I haven't made a decision about that yet. I need more time."

Damien, in turn, seems to forget that I exist upon hearing Ahmed's protests. He whips around and says "I told _you_ that it was tonight or nothing! It _has_ to be tonight!" Then, as fast as he'd snapped, Damien calms down, and starts stroking Ahmed on the arm."I _told_ you," he says in a soothing voice. "There's no home for me without you in it."

"What do you mean?" I say, alarmed. I look at Ahmed, who is, in turn, looking at Damien, an unfathomable expression on his face. "What does he mean, home?"

"You heard the man," Damien says, narrowing his eyes at me. "Leave us alone."

" _No_ ," I shout. "Ahmed what the hell does he mean? Does he-" and I stop, realizing. The Dark Dance, the leaves - the _human sacrifice_ \- everything I've read for the past month. "Does he mean he's taking you to the Otherworld?"

Neither of them answers me, but they don't move either.

"Ahmed, you _can't_!" I say, practically shrieking. "You know what Professor Potsdam says, you _can't_ go there! You'll get eaten!"

Damien draws himself up to his full height, indignant. "As if I'd take him somewhere I couldn't protect him with my own life!" he says.

"I don't _care_!" I say. "Ahmed, you don't know what it's like there, it's horrible - you could get lost taking two steps, and there's the goblins-"

"Oh!" Damien says, back to sardonic again. "So _she's_ been there, and telling _you_ not to go."

"Really?" Ahmed says, more curious, it seems, than angry. "So if you've been there, and you came back-"

"I - I nearly died!" I say, frantically glancing from Ahmed to Damien. "It's not worth it just because _he's_ trying to sweet-talk you! You _know_ what Professor Potsdam says - you can't go!"

But Ahmed is already frowning, thoughtful.

"You see?" Damien says to him. "It isn't as bad as that harridan makes out. People our age go all the time, _they_ just suppress it so they can control you. Just like all the other misinformation they give you. Stay in school, follow the rules, do what we tell you, don't cross any lines or you'll be sorry? Well I'm not sorry." Damien lifts his hand and strokes Ahmed's cheek, and to my horror, Ahmed raises his hand to clasp Damien's. "I'll never be sorry for breaking the rules for you," Damien continues.

"Professor Potsdam _said_ that we couldn't go, even with someone we trust, even if they say it's okay and they'll protect us," I insist. "And Ahmed, Damien is the _last_ person who's going to protect you! I know what he did to you - _he hurt you_!"

There - I said it, those words I couldn't say before. I feel a sort of release, like a cork drawn from a bottle. But Ahmed's stalking toward me with more fury than I've ever seen in his face before. "You don't know-" he starts, but I interrupt him.

" _Yes_ , I _do_ ," I insist. "Jacob told me about it. I _know_ how badly he hurt you, so don't pretend he's all innocent!"

" _Fine_ ," Ahmed shouts at me. "He hurt me. I admit it. Are you happy? But he _didn't_ kill me."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" I snap.

"It should, considering that was what he was trying to do in the first place!" Ahmed says.

I'm speechless at this, staring at Ahmed open-mouthed.

"But he didn't," Ahmed continues, "because he couldn't. He couldn't do it. Because-" Ahmed's voice cracks, and he looks at the floor. "He loves me," he says, in a near whisper.

Damien, who had been staring at both of us with a cold curiosity rushes to Ahmed's side. "Don't say it like you thought I didn't mean it!" he says, managing to sound as though he's commanding and begging in the same breath.

"He didn't kill you because Professor Potsdam chased him out of school," I say.

" _No_ , he _didn't_ ," Ahmed insists. "He stopped the ritual before she even got there. I cast Spirit Echoes in the gym right after it happened, Eliza, I know what he did - and didn't do." Ahmed lets Damien wind his arm around his shoulders.

"Wait," I say, "Ritual, what _ritual_? What was he trying to do?

Ahmed goes red at the question, but he continues, a defensive tone to his voice. "Just - trying to take my soul so he could inherit his kingdom," he says, so quickly it's hard for me to make out the words. "He told me he was sick, that he'd die without my soul so I-" Ahmed stops, clenches his teeth, continues. "He was the _only_ one who ever made me feel like I was home," he finally says. "I couldn't let him die. I didn't care what it took. I didn't have anything left. I'm a _shitty_ son, I'm a shitty Muslim, I'm a shitty wizard. So I thought if I can't get anything else right, then maybe at least I could save _him_."

Whatever I was about to say to that catches in my throat. I can only listen in sheer horror at what Ahmed is saying.

"So I said yes," Ahmed says, his voice brittle. "And we did the ritual - but just after I cut myself, that's when he told me the truth - that he wasn't sick, he needed my soul to become a prince."

I glance at Damien, but his expression is unreadable. He doesn't glance my way, but keeps his eyes fixed on Ahmed.

"But he didn't go through with it. He - in the end, he couldn't take my soul, even if it meant losing _everything_ \- he gave up _everything_ for me. That's how I know he's _not_ gonna hurt me."

I can barely hear Ahmed's last sentence in the sudden red haze that comes over me. I find myself pressing my hand to my chest, just below my sternum, hardly able to breathe. Instead of the pair in front of me, all I see is the Cheshire grin of my late father in law before he dips his head out of view to suck the soul out of my body.

"What - what the _hell_ , Ahmed - he tried to steal your soul and you're _defending_ him?"

"Did you not just hear what I-" Ahmed starts, but I raise my voice to shout over him.

"He doesn't love you, he's _using_ you - he probably picked you out of the whole freshman class so he could get to you, and now - taking you to the Otherworld? Ahmed, _that will kill you_."

Ahmed doesn't respond, but to my surprise, Damien does. "Well,"he says, voice like cool silk, "that's not exactly true."

"Yes it _would_ -" I start.

"No, I mean I didn't pick him so I could steal his soul," Damien interrupts, letting go of Ahmed and crossing his arms in front of his chest. "I picked you."

I'm struck silent - it's Ahmed who whirls on Damien and snaps " _what_?"

"Well," Damien says, as though this were obvious, "I needed a willing witch's soul to ascend to the heights I was meant for. So I searched for the most credulous idiot I could find - wildseed of course, they know absolutely nothing about our ways. It took me years, but just when I thought my time was running out, I found her." Damien frowns at me, his eyes narrowing. "And I did _everything_. Singled you out. Gave you presents. I even gave Professor Grabiner that love letter so you'd trust me."

"That was _you_?" I say, horrified. "But you got me out of trouble-"

Damien rolls his eyes and sighs. " _Obviously_. You gave me quite a hug afterwards, I remember." He grins, but seems oblivious to Ahmed seething beside him.

"But after all that - and even after I'd played coy to keep you interested - you turn out to be an ice-hearted bitch," Damien concludes. "I came to you, all penitence on the night of the Dark Dance, asking plaintively if we could be _friends_. And you got that _look_ you get, and said no."

Ahmed now whirls on me. " _What_?" he says. "You said that was Angela!"

"What? No - I-" I say, but stop on seeing Damien's smile curl into a grin.

"Oh yes," he says, "I begged her, I said that everyone I knew hated me and all I wanted was to be her friend. And she said _no_. After everything I'd done, she said no."

"Well," I huff, trying to ignore the look of fury on Ahmed's face, "maybe you're not as smooth as you think you are, Damien Ramsey!"

Damien scowls. "You want to know how smooth I am? Ask your roommate's big brother. Ask Angela. Ask _anyone_ ," he snaps. "There's something wrong with _you_ \- frigidity, something Freudian like that."

"That's not even a real thing!" I insist.

"I bet you haven't even let your husband have a piece," Damien says, grinning archly. "I don't sense him around - did you drive him off too, after he got sick of chasing after that icy little-"

" _You leave him out of this_!" I shout. "This is between the two of us-"

"The _three_ of us," interrupts Ahmed, his tone as livid as his expression. "I can't _believe_ you lied to me, Eliza!"

I gape at Ahmed. Why had I lied to him, really? "I - I just didn't want to hurt your feelings-" I say, knowing how unconvincing I sound, even as the words come out of my mouth.

"You thought I'd be too stupid to figure it out," Ahmed insists, and Damien's smile goes wide.

"And you were going to let _her_ stop you," he purrs. "You know what you need to do. Your family's forgotten you. Your only friend won't even tell you the truth unless she's forced to. There's nothing keeping you here, and you know it."

"If I did," Ahmed starts, hesitant. "If I went with you - do you promise that I'd be totally safe? Nothing could hurt me?"

"Nothing would dare touch a hair on your head," Damien says. "You'll live in my palace, waited on hand and foot by my slaves. You'll have everything you want. I'll give you food that will keep you young and beautiful. And I'll be there - every day. Your most obedient slave. Forever."

"You _can't_ ," I wail, aware that my protests sound pathetic compared to Damien's promises. "Ahmed, you can't leave me - you're my best friend, _please_ -"

Damien shakes his head in mock-sorrow. "You see?" he says. "She only cares about what happens to her. She doesn't care about _your_ happiness."

"Promise then," Ahmed says. "Promise me that I won't get hurt."

In one swift, graceful movement, Damien goes to his knees in front of Ahmed. "I swear on everything I own, by all the power I possess, by my own life, that nothing will harm you if you come home with me. But-" he adds, hurriedly, "only if you come tonight. That's the rule - the promise holds only for tonight."

Ahmed remains silent; Damien, staring at him, waits for news of his fate. I want to scream something - anything - but I know it would only make things worse.

And then, slowly, Ahmed raises his hand to touch Damien's cheek with his fingertips.

 _I've lost him!_ I realize, and then do the only thing I can think of - cast a farspeak spell. The connection catches, and holds.

_PROFESSOR POTSDAM - DAMIEN RAMSEY -YOU HAVE TO COME RIGHT NOW!_

Damien leaps to his feet, coming at me, snarling "oh you just _would_ , you useless cow-" It's all he has time to say before Professor Potsdam herself bursts into the room, surrounded by a glowing pink aura of pure power.

I sag against the wall, a little moan of relief escaping my mouth. _It'll be all right now. Everything's going to be all right._

"Well!" Professor Potsdam says, her cheerful smile not wavering for a moment. "I'm a little surprised to see you, Mr. Ramsey. You do realize that your expulsion was not limited to last school term, I hope?"

"As if _you_ could keep me out, you bat-faced hag," Damien snaps, pushing Ahmed behind one of his wings. "You put up all those cambion wards after I was gone, but not one of them could stop me."

His gloating smile drops when Professor Potsdam says "oh yes dear, I knew that," and gives a silvery little laugh. "I've known ever since your last little visit. I was so curious to see whether you'd try to come back again. And now I know!" She laughs again. "I really must thank you. Incidentally, I'd watch who you called bat-faced - I don't mind of course, but there are those who would certainly take offense, particularly as you're not one to talk."

Professor Potsdam's refusal to take Damien seriously seems to enrage him. He scowls, and his blue bat wings tremble. "Laugh all you like," he hisses, "but I'm here to take what's mine, and there's nothing you can do to stop me."

"What's yours?" Professor Potsdam asks, seeming genuinely curious. "Oh, I see - is that Mr. Al-Sharif I see behind you? Do come out, pet, you aren't in trouble."

Ahmed peeks his head out from behind Damien, looking nervous despite Professor Potsdam's assurances.

"It's my right!" Damien insists, pushing Ahmed behind him again. "It's my right to take him tonight!"

"Ah," Professor Potsdam says. "I haven't heard that old rule in years. But are you quite sure you want to do it that way? There are complications, you know - have you thought those through?"

"What complications?" asks Ahmed, and when no one answers him, he repeats, "what complications?"

"She's trying to stall," Damien says. "Didn't I swear that nothing would hurt you?"

Professor Potsdam frowns. "Eliza, dear," she says, suddenly turning to me, "didn't you give Mr. Al-Sharif one of your hawthorn leaves?"

"N-no," I say. "He wasn't at the dance - I couldn't find him in time."

"Hm," Professor Potsdam says at this. "That is certainly unlucky - but that is what happens when you cut a hawthorn that isn't in bloom, gosling." She gives me a small, sorrowful smile, then turns back to Damien. "In that case," she says briskly, "I'm afraid I shall have to ask that you leave, Mr. Ramsey. You seem to have caused enough excitement for one night, and I think Mr. Al-Sharif and Miss Moon will want to get back to the dance."

" _NO_!" Damien shrieks, his wings flapping so hard that Ahmed has to duck to prevent them from hitting his head. "You won't take him away from me - not now! I'm not going back without him!"

"You've been given some misleading information," Profesor Potsdam begins, taking one step, then two, towards Damien with her hands stretched in front of her. "You had better leave him here. I will not tell you again." Her hands are poised for a spell, the pink glow around her intensifying in brightness as she continues her approach. Her cheerful façade drops, and she speaks in a powerful, commanding voice. "Go. _Now_."

Damien hesitates, and for one moment, I believe he really is going to disappear. But suddenly, with serpentine speed, he reaches into the pocket of his curiously embroidered jacket and throws something at Professor Potsdam. It's small, and I can't see what it is as it arcs through the air towards her - just a winking light as it reflects her pink aura. It hits her with a tiny tinkling sound, and Professor Potsdam stops mid-stride, her eyes going wide, her hands frozen in the air. She makes a choking sort of gasp, and then collapses in a heap upon the floor. The pink glow around her flickers - and then it goes out.

The three of us remain standing still until I break the silence. "What did you _do_?" I ask, and it comes out in a hoarse croak. " _What did you do to her_?"

Damien is staring at the motionless body of Professor Potsdam as though he himself doesn't understand what he's just done. But when he hears me speak, he cuts his eyes to me - and they're filled with both malice and cunning.

"Do you _see_?" he says to me. "Do you _see_ what you made me do? Do you see what happens when you interfere with something I want?" He straightens and makes a half turn toward Ahmed, his eyes still fixed to mine. Then he turns back more slowly, the beginnings of a hard smile on his face. "Well," he says, "now that you're here you might be useful after all, ice princess." He launches into a spell with lightning speed - so fast that I only have time to cringe against the wall before I feel the rush of magic flow through the air and hit me. But the spell seems to have no effect - nothing hurts, nothing feels different or strange. I slowly straighten, but by this time Damien has turned back to Ahmed.

"We have to go," he says, "right now. They'll be here any minute, and we _can't_ be here when they do."

"But-" Ahmed says, his eyes wide, his face ashen.

Damien doesn't let him finish. "If you stay here, you're done," he says. "You'll never see me again. You won't even remember my name - what I look like - what I feel like." His voice goes husky and low. "Ahmed, you can't do that to me. Come with me now."

Ahmed looks at Damien, at Professor Potsdam, at me.

"Say yes," Damien says. "I can only take you if you say yes."

They're still, staring at each other, Damien begging Ahmed with his eyes.

"Yes," Ahmed says. "Okay. Yes."

Damien gives a half-gasp, half-cry of triumph, and reaches his hand up. He seems to grab hold of something in the air and _rips_ until the very air behind him tears apart revealing a barren, desolate landscape studded with twisted, writhing trees.

Damien grabs hold of Ahmed's waist with his other arm, and steps through the tear, shooting one glance of smug satisfaction at me before the tear seems to heal itself behind him - and the two are gone.

I can't move for what feels like a long time - a sudden rictus in my body prevents me from even blinking. But suddenly I break free and rush toward where Professor Potsdam is lying, barking one knee as I fall to the floor beside her.

"Professor?" I say, shaking her. "Professor - wake up-"

Professor Potsdam does not wake up. I hurriedly cast a light spell, and set it to hover over us. Professor Potsdam's skin is colorless and waxy, her eyes half open and unseeing. I reach for her wrist, then her throat, but I can't feel either a breath or a pulse.

"No!" I say, and cast the intermediate healing spell - the strongest one I know - straight into Professor Potsdam's chest. Nothing happens. "Oh my God-" I say, a sob welling in my chest. "Professor-"

I cast around desperately, searching for the tiny whatever-it-was that Damien had thrown, thinking it must be on the floor somewhere. If I get it to someone, maybe they can figure out what happened. But try as I might, my palms skitter over the tile of the classroom floor without finding a thing.

Just as I'm considering crawling under one of the desks to continue the search, another, more powerful light shines down on both Professor Potsdam and me. I look up, squinting, covering my eyes with one arm. I shift until I see the source of the light - Professor Terrec, standing in the doorframe of the classroom.

In spite of everything that's happened between me and Professor Terrec, my shoulders sag with relief upon seeing him. I don't care about his strange way of looking at me, his menacing tone, or even the spell he cast on me to stare into my brain. All I am capable of understanding is that here, finally, is someone with authority - someone who can help.

"Professor," I gasp, "you have to do something - I don't know what he did to her-"

" _You_ ," Professor Terrec says, not moving from the door frame. "I ought to have known." He crouches next to me, bringing his light to Professor Potsdam's face. He stares at her, and then raises his face to mine. The expression he holds is indescribable. "What did you do?" he asks in a low whisper.

The relief in my chest crystallizes into panic. "What? No! It wasn't me!" I say, scrambling to my feet. "It was Damien Ramsey - he was here, he-"

Professor Terrec rises to his feet as well. "Damien Ramsey - I have heard this name," he says. "He is a cambion - and the school is girded against cambions. I myself refreshed the wards this afternoon."

"He said they didn't work!" I insist, "he says they don't work against him!" I stop, seeing that Professor Terrec's expression has gone from incredulous to cold.

"I'm afraid-" he starts, but I interrupt him.

"Cast spirit echoes!" I shout, my voice cracking with desperation. "Cast spirit echoes and you'll see - he was just here - _he took Ahmed away_ and we have to find him - we have to get Professor Potsdam better and find him-"

Professor Terrec narrows his eyes at me, and for a moment I think he won't do it. But then he says "very well," and begins the hand motions of an advanced spell with spirit echoes as its base.

The spell washes over the room, and images begin to take shape - wavery at first, and then solidifying. Professor Potsdam is there, where she'd been standing not five minutes ago. But the person standing on the other side of the classroom isn't Damien.

It's me.

The images blur with movement, and I shout something at Professor Potsdam, something that I can't hear. Then it's my arm that throws something at my headmistress, my hand that releases the tiny flashing thing that hits her and causes her to collapse.

The image fades, and vanishes.

I stare at Professor Terrec. Professor Terrec stares at me. And slowly, he begins to smile.

The strength in my legs gives way, and I sit down on the floor hard, bruising my tailbone. I barely register the pain.

The skirt of Professor Terrec's robes fills my vision, and I look up to see him standing over me, that serene smile on his face.

"I'm afraid that you shall have to come with me," he says.


	16. Chapter 16

I'm in jail.

When I was a child - before I knew anything about magic - if anyone had asked me whether I was more likely to become a witch or go to jail, I would have picked "become a witch" without hesitation. Because I'm not the kind of person that goes to jail - or so I would have thought.

Not _me_. Not the only child - the _spoiled_ child - of privileged, middle class parents. Not the quiet girl who always had her nose in a book, who cared about her grades, who ran track in the fresh air. Not the girl with the wholesome friends, who never worried her mom and dad by staying out late, by flirting with older boys or by sneaking into liquor cabinets. Not the girl whose idea of an exciting Friday night invariably involved pajamas, dvds, nail polish, and if I was really feeling wild, a bubble bath with a paperback held above the water.

But I'm in jail.

Professor Terrec had taken hold of my wrist and teleported me into one of the dungeons, pushed me into a cell and locked the door without another word. He'd teleported away again immediately - I hadn't even had the satisfaction of screaming at him as he walked down the dungeon corridor.

I'd cast a light spell, which revealed a low bunk and a bucket stashed underneath. This latter I'd kicked into the far corner with a bit of a shudder, trying not to think of how long it would be before I might need it. I'd sat on the bunk, and the mattress had wafted a distinct smell of mildew at the slightest pressure, causing me to gag. A disinfecting spell had helped with the stench a little, but not much.

I'd tried shooting an opening spell at the door lock, but as soon as I had, a high pitched wailing alarm sounded, and I'd had to stuff my fingers in my ears until it subsided after several minutes. The door, needless to say, did not open.

I'd tried to farspeak someone - anyone I know, really. Ellen, Virginia, Minnie, Suki - but the spell petered out and died before it could reach a single soul. Either there was some kind of block on casting spells outside of the dungeon, or I was so far under Iris Academy that my level of farspeak spell simply couldn't reach.

 _Or both_ , I'd thought, and shuddered a little.

I'd thought about them - my friends and my ex-friends, dancing in the gymnasium above my head, giggling, enjoying themselves. _None of them knows I'm down here_ , I'd realized. _None of them even know I'm in trouble - or that Ahmed's gone._

 _It's going to be okay_ , I'd thought as I'd lain down on the still-musty mattress. _Professor Potsdam's going to wake up and tell Professor Terrec what happened. She'll get me out of this._

But her waxy, pallid skin - her half open eyes.

And suddenly I'd thought of something Professor Grabiner said to me in August. _Take care of yourself_ , he'd said. _You can't always count on a Petunia_ ex machina _to go about rescuing you all the time_.

 _I should have listened to him_ , I'd realized. Because isn't that exactly what I've done - called Professor Potsdam to solve my problems without trying to do it on my own? Expected her to waltz in and save me just by snapping her fingers? Even if I'd let Damien take Ahmed into the Otherworld, I could have run to her afterwards, and she would have been awake

_alive?_

to figure something out, to help-

_or are you just depending on her again?_

I'd covered my head with my arms, burrowing into the foul-smelling mattress, trying not to imagine Ellen and Virginia going into our room after the dance finished, glancing at my bunk. "Where's she?" Virginia might say, and Ellen would shrug. "I haven't seen her since the dance started." Then they'd both get ready for bed, without thinking of me again until the next morning, when they realize my bed hasn't been slept in-

_No - you'll be back by morning. They'll realize it was a mistake, Professor Potsdam will tell them when she wakes up. It'll be fine._

I'd told myself this over and over, trying to crowd out the hideous doubts that churned under the surface of my head until my body had given up and let me sleep.

In the morning, I'm somewhere else.

The first thing I notice is the smell - or, rather, the lack of smells. There's no mildew, no stench from the bucket in the corner. The pillow under my head - which wasn't there when I'd fallen asleep - instead smells as though it has been recently cleaned. But it's not the comforting perfume of fabric softener or the dryer sheets that my parents use on the laundry. It's a cold industrial smell, like bleach, and the cloth is stiff under my cheek. It doesn't smell like my pillow at home - it's not misshapen and lumpy like my pillow at school - so where am I?

I open my eyes to a room that's entirely white.

The walls are white. The ceiling and floors are white. The sheets I'm laying on are white. The light shining in the room - with no discernible source - is white. When I roll over, I see that the clothes I'm wearing - a pajama-like pair of knee-length shorts and a shirt that comes past my hips - are white.

I sit up and glance around the room - but there's not much to glance at. There's the bed on which I'm sitting, a small shelf extending from one wall, a sink, a toilet-

_well at least it's not a bucket_

-and nothing else. There's no window. There's no door. There's only an entryway into a hallway that's just as white as the room I'm in.

I stand and walk to the entrance. There's nothing but a blank wall opposite my room - white, of course, with a white tile floor. I'm tempted to just step through, but something tells me it won't be that simple. Instead, I reach one hand out through the entrance - and hit a barrier. I slap it with my palm, then knock it with my fist. It's completely solid - and formed entirely of magic.

I turn back to the room full of nothing just to be sure that it doesn't have _something_ in it that I might have missed. I'm wrong. There's still nothing.

And that's when I realize it - I'm in jail.

I'd told Professor Potsdam that Professor Terrec wouldn't just expel me if he knew what would happen to Hieronymous if he did - and it looks like I was right. But instead, he's carried out the very threat my husband made last spring - thrown me into this bright white oubliette so that everyone I ever knew will forget me.

But for how long? Until January, when I can be divorced and then cast out of the community with no magic and no memory? Or for longer?

"Hello?" I call out into the hallway. There's no response. "Helloo-oo," I call again, even as I start to suspect that there isn't anyone there to respond. "Can anyone hear me? Is anyone there?" No response. The quiet begins to feel oppressive, and I shiver, and sit down on the bed again. I try a farspeak spell, only to feel it fizzle - it seems to fade before it can exit the confines of the room, and try as I might, I can't get the spell to reach any further. A track scent spell, cast to see if I can detect the presence of any humans in the hallway, however long ago, does the same thing - fades before it reaches the barrier. I'm completely shut in, and there's nothing to do but wait.

I don't know how long I spend there, waiting.

They - the ones in charge of my prison, whoever _they_ might be, don't turn off, or even dim, the lights at what I assume is night. I get tired, fall asleep, and wake to the same bright white light. Without a window to show me whether the sun is up, I begin to feel disoriented - stuck in some sort of limbo in which time doesn't pass.

Since I can't count days, I start trying to count meals. They appear on my little shelf at an interval of - I'm not really sure, but I assume a few hours apart. There's no distinction between the meals - no scrambled eggs to tell me that it's breakfast, no sandwich to indicate it's lunch. Every meal is the same - a weird meatloaf-ish slice of matter that's so bland and flavorless, I can't tell whether it's made of meat, vegetables, or a weird combination of both. A tray section of mushy green beans, which are sometimes mixed with carrots. A little pool of ketchup. A dry roll with a pat of something that looks like butter and tastes like plastic.

When I receive my first meal, it looks so unappetizing that I decide to hunger strike. I leave the tray on the shelf until it vanishes when I'm not looking. But I quickly regret it - my stomach begins to growl long before the next one arrives, and I eat it quickly in spite of the awful taste and texture of the food. I try my hunger strike again with the third meal, reminding myself of the suffragettes and their hunger strikes in prison. But when I remember that the suffragettes wound up getting force-fed through the nose, I decide that I'd prefer not to find out how a magical prison force-feeds its inmates, and eat the meal.

There's nothing to do when I'm not eating. I try to think back to what I remember about jails from movies and television - it isn't much, but I do remember that prisoners are supposed to be allowed things like books and writing paper in their cells, and that they are allowed to go into yards to exercise and chat. But as I wait, no one arrives to give me anything, or to take me anywhere. I even try shouting "MAY I HAVE A BOOK PLEASE?" at the top of my lungs, but there's nothing to indicate that anyone has heard, or is willing to respond to my request.

Six meals go by. Then twelve. I pace in my cell, telling myself stories that I remember. Fairy tales are easiest, but all those fairy godmothers just make me sick with worry about Professor Potsdam - whether she's all right, whether she knows I'm here. I try movies and novels instead, which are a little better, but I tend to lose my place somewhere in the middle - forgetting how the kids in _Jurassic Park_ got into the kitchen for the velociraptor attack, or how Mrs. Danvers managed to convince the second Mrs. deWinter to dress as Lady Caroline deWinter to shock her husband. The stories begin to run together until Indiana Jones is excavating Catherine Linton's grave, Athos, Porthos and Aramis show up for a duel with Inigo Montoya, and velociraptors attack the kitchen at Manderley during the fancy dress ball.

When I'm not mixing movies and novels into horrible plot _portmanteaux_ , I exercise. Given the size of my cell and the lack of heavy things to pick up and put back down it's tough, but not impossible. I jog in place, do push ups, execute several sets of horrendous exercises called "burpees" that Coach O'Donnell used to delight in inflicting on my track team. I do sit-ups, leg lifts, jumping jacks - anything and everything I can think of to make sure my muscles don't atrophy through staying in bed in the endless white light.

I exercise my brain too - going through nearly every spell I've learned over the past year and two months of school, casting them over and over again until my knuckles crack with the effort. Every spell fizzles and dies long before it can even reach the invisible barrier to the hallway. Even when I try to cast spells on the objects in the room, the spell shorts out before it can do any lasting change. Nevertheless, I keep at it, drilling all but the most destructive spells that I don't want to take chances with. Once I've gone through every spell, I start over again - cycling through until I don't have any magic left, and then I sleep until it all comes back again. But even after all that, it feels as though no time has passed at all. There's only an endless now, interrupted by the meals.

I lose my count of meals at thirty-five - or was it thirty-six? I'm nearly finished eating when I realize that I can't remember. And the realization makes me furious. I scream, mouth half-full of prison loaf, and throw the tray at the wall. The food scatters everywhere, and the ketchup splats on the wall. This gives me a sudden idea, and I stand to the ketchup splat. I dip my fingers into the red puddle and write, as large as I can, "I AM INNOCENT PLEASE HELP" on the wall's white surface. Underneath, as a bit of an afterthought, I write "36," figuring it's close enough.

 _Someone will see_ , I think, sitting back on the bed, and sucking the last of the ketchup from my fingers. _And they'll at least do_ something.

Someone must see, because when I fall asleep, I wake to the sight of a perfectly clean cell. There are no bits of food scattered on the floor, there's no overturned tray, and no ketchup message on the wall. The place has been scrubbed - no, _magicked_ \- clean, and looks as though I'd never written my message in the first place.

When I see the pristine wall, my hopelessness sinks into despair, and I spend hours listless, unable to bring myself to get up off my cot. But some time later, I receive my next meal. It's the same as all the others, save for one thing - no ketchup.

I don't scream at this, I _shriek_ , and after picking up the tray, full meal and all, and hurling it at the barriered doorway I go on shrieking - " _NO! NO! NO! NO! YOU CAN'T! NO!_ " I run at the food-covered barrier and slam my whole body into it, but bounce off as though I've just hurled myself into a wall. Undeterred, I back up toward the wall at the back of the cell, and rush the barrier at a dead run. Again, all I manage to do is slam into the unrelenting barrier, falling to the floor covered in bits of disgusting food, all the time clutching my fingers into my hair and tearing at it. " _YOU CAN'T LEAVE ME HERE!_ " I scream, _"I DIDN'T DO IT! YOU HAVE TO GET PROFESSOR POTSDAM! YOU HAVE TO GET HIER-_ "

And as suddenly as I'd started shrieking I stop, at the horrifying realization that Hieronymous probably knows where I am - knows I'm here - is perhaps watching me this minute. I can picture him with the _them_ , watching me in some modernist panopticon observation chamber, all slick monitors and control panels. _It's quite a relief not to be saddled with that schoolgirl. I only look forward to when we can be divorced for good and all._

I let out a wail that ends in a sob and rest my head on the filthy floor, covering my mouth with my hands, tears streaming down my face. It's just like he said in April - that he could keep me so safe that my friends would forget my very name. That he could make me disappear.

"Please don't," I wail. "Please don't leave me here - you said you'd protect me-"

But didn't he try? Didn't he ask me to stay in England with him, and when that didn't work, didn't he tell me not to antagonize Professor Terrec? Maybe I deserve to be here after all.

I cry myself to sleep there on the floor of the cell. And when I wake up, all of the spilled food has been magicked away, my clothes and person are spotlessly clean, and a fresh tray of the same, ketchup-less meal has been placed on my little shelf.

I stop counting the meals after that. I keep myself occupied with my cycle of exercise, spells, sleep, and exercise again. It begins to put me into a hypnotic sort of state - keeping me from thinking about anything but the present. Time is no longer something to try to count, but rather an endless void that stretches interminably before and behind me. I begin to feel as though the rest of the world has gone on and left me behind, but soon stop feeling anything at all.

So it's that much more of a shock when I'm teleported out of the cell.

It happens in an instant - one moment I'm practicing my sticky feet spell and the next, I'm somewhere else.

I open my mouth to scream, but nothing comes out except my rapid breathing. I'm in a small room, but it's saturated with eye-searing colors. I hiss in my breath, lifting my arms to my face before I realize that someone's in the room with me.

It's a slight young man with longish brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, and wearing severe black robes. He has a pair of wire-frame glasses perched on a thin blade of a nose, and he looks through them irritably at my arrival.

"Late," he snaps. "Typical. Name?"

"I'm sorry I was late," I say in a small voice, desperate to curry any favor I can with the _them_.

The man does not accept my apology. " _Name_ ," he repeats.

"Eliza," I squeak.

"Surname?"

"Uh - Moon. I mean Grabiner. Uh - Montague?"

The man gives me a sharp look, and then with a flick of his wrist sends a flurry of papers on his desk into the air. They fall back in a snapping motion, some going to the corner of his desk in a neat pile, and some into a folder in front of him. He picks up the folder, looks at the first page, and his eyebrows rise. Then he stands. "Come with me, please."

"Is this about the ketchup?" I ask.

The man whirls on me, his face pinched. "If you don't come with me immediately, Lady Montague, I'll have to call an escort, which will be extremely inconvenient for everyone, and we're already late as it is. Do you want me to call the escort?"

The way he enunciates "escort" makes it seem like a very nasty prospect indeed. "No," I whisper, and step toward him.

"Very good," he says, turning away and opening a door.

He leads me through the doorway and into a larger room.

The room isn't big, exactly, but it is very grand. It's a circle with a vaulted ceiling made entirely of what looks like milky glass, and lets in lovely, diffuse sunlight.

It's been so long since I've seen sunlight that it's a minute before I can tear my eyes from the ceiling and look at the rest of the room. The walls below the skylight are painted with shimmering frescoes, all geometric patterns that seem to subtly shift, and resolve themselves into something almost recognizable if I don't look at them too hard. The lower parts of the walls are framed with panels of rippling, caramel colored wood that seems somehow familiar and somehow alien at the same time. The floor is made of the same wood, polished to a mirror shine. The ponytailed man's shoes - black, pointy toed - make clacking sounds as he leads me to a small wooden table in the center of the room.

There are two tables, identical in appearance, set up next to each other, each with two chairs. The man leads me to the rightmost table, and pulls out one of the chairs for me without a word. I sit.

My table and chair are facing a semicircle of five larger, grander chairs, all carved out of the same caramel wood, and seeming to rise organically from the floor. They have plush cushions in jewel-colored fabric on the seats and backs, and the one in the middle looks as though it's been embroidered with gold thread. All are currently empty, as is the left chair at my table, and both chairs at the table to the left.

The ponytailed man glances at his watch, then casts a spell. A pair of double doors behind me open soundlessly, and a man steps through. I start, and clutch the back of my chair, making small croaking sounds that are the precursor to a scream - it's Professor Terrec.

Before my voice can find itself, the ponytailed man leans in close to me. "If you're disruptive I'll have to restrain you," he says. "And that includes the casting of any and all spells, however innocuous."

I decide that the only thing worse than being in a room with Professor Terrec is being restrained in a room with Professor Terrec. I clamp my jaw down, and what would have been a scream comes out as a wheeze.

Professor Terrec doesn't seem to notice me at all as he sweeps up the aisle toward the left table and sits, his indigo robes swirling artfully around him. He removes from an inner pocket a leather-bound folder, from which he retrieves several documents, and begins to set them up in a neat line before him. I stare at him, half desperate to know what he's doing, and half dreading the moment when I find out.

Professor Terrec finishes his sorting, and rests his hands before him, serene as always. I glance from him to the empty five chairs and back again, my breath coming fast and shallow. I feel dizzy - too many colors around me, the light now seeming harsh and too yellow. My vision seems to swim and go oddly flat, as though my depth perception has stopped working.

When the loud knock comes, I nearly leap out of my seat. It comes from the direction of the ponytailed man, standing beside a desk placed slightly behind the semicircle of chairs. "All rise," he says, in a ringing voice that fills the room.

Professor Terrec stands smoothly. I stand too, making a screeching sound as my chair is pushed back against the polished floor. A door opens in the back of the room, and five people - well, beings, really, file in.

Only two of the five give the impression of being entirely human - one man, middle aged with a thick head of carefully styled steel grey hair, and one woman, small, birdlike and angular, with dark hair pulled into a severe bun. There's another being who looks like a man, but his hair is engulfed in flickering flames. The other two beings are much stranger to my eyes. One is a lithe creature of no discernible sex that can't be more than a foot high. And the last is a cloud of greyish-blue mist that seems to resolve itself around a glowing golden core. All except the mist are clothed in black wizard's robes.

The five seat themselves in their respective chairs - the man with the grey hair in the center, flanked by the mist, which sort of curls around itself and hovers over the cushion, and the tiny creature, who conjures a set of steps leading to the seat, and sits with a self-possession that makes the enormous seat seem like a perfect fit. The woman and the man with the flaming head take the outer seats.

Once all five have seated themselves, the ponytailed man says "be seated," so I scramble back into my chair again.

"In the matter of the Honorable Council vee Eliza Grabiner _nee_ Moon, the Lady Montague, the Chairman Mather presiding, Yves Terrec for the prosecution," says the ponytailed man, who then seats himself at his desk.

My breath catches and freezes in my chest as I realize what's happening. _A trial_ , I think, _a trial in front of the entire council - and what happens to me if I lose?_

"Good morning, Yves," the grey-haired man in the center - Chairman Mather, I guess - says, jocularly, as though he's addressing a friend.

"Good morning your honor," Yves replies. "I trust you've had fine weather this week."

"Unusually warm," Chairman Mather replies. "It's a nice change. Now, we have Miss - erm-" he says, pulling a piece of paper out of the air. "Lady Montague, rather." He squints at me, and I'm acutely aware that in my pajama-like prison clothes, I don't look much like a grand lady. "And where is her advocate?" Chairman Mather says.

Professor Terrec clears his throat. "As I'm sure your honor is aware, that is the preliminary question upon which I have requested a ruling."

"Ah, yes," Chairman Mather says, pulling another sheaf of papers out of the air. The other members of the council do the same, and shuffle through their pages. Well, most of them do - the mist seems to consume them, and the pages float in a lazy circle around its glowing core. "We received your motion this week."

The man with the flaming hair speaks up then, with a thin, sharp voice that sounds strangely familiar. "It isn't our practice to preclude defendants from having competent representation," he says. "As a magical citizen, she has that right."

"And I would argue, your Honor, that Miss Moon - excuse me, Lady Montague's - age and position precludes such a right, as she is not yet considered a magical citizen," responds Professor Terrec. "Under normal circumstances she would not be permitted representation, or even a hearing at all, but fall under my sole authority."

"These are not normal circumstances," the flame-headed man replies.

"That is true, but there are certain other matters that must be taken into account-" Professor Terrec begins.

"Yes, we've read them - conflict of interest, personal jurisdiction," Chairman Mather replies. "But I'm afraid none of these is very persuasive, Yves, if she's to appear before us for a crime this serious, and with such consequences involved in her expulsion, she ought to have representation." He smiles at Professor Terrec, seeming almost apologetic.

I, meanwhile, am trying to wrap my brain around what's just happened - representation? Does that mean I get a lawyer? _Are_ there magical lawyers? My dad's a lawyer, but not only is he non-magical, he does mergers and acquisitions, not criminal trials. And what's the serious crime? Is it hurting Professor Potsdam - or is it killing her? My stomach sinks at this last. And if Damien killed her and framed me - will I get put to death as well?

"All for allowing Lady Montague an advocate," Chairman Mather says, and all of the councilmembers raise their hands - except the mist, which raises a sort of smoky tendril. "Let the record show that the council has ruled denying the motion of the prosecution. Now, does Lady Montague have an advocate?" he continues, turning, not to me, but to the ponytailed man, who must be some kind of clerk. "Or will we have to reschedule?"

"No, your honor," the clerk replies. "There's an advocate waiting."

This, finally, causes me to snap. Who knows who they've picked to be my advocate - for all I know, it could be someone in league with Professor Terrec's prosecution. I stand. "Wait," I say. "I should get to pick my own-"

The chairman slashes his hand through the air, and I'm forced back into my seat, my jaw snapping shut, my teeth narrowly missing the tip of my tongue. "No outbursts, Lady Montague, or we shall hold you in contempt of council," he says. "Thaddeus, please have her advocate enter."

Thaddeus - the clerk - motions with his hands, and I whirl around as the double doors once again swing open, my jaw clenched with rage against whatever fraud has been sent in to send me to my certain doom.

And so when Hieronymous Grabiner steps into the room, I'm so stunned that I nearly fall out of my chair.


	17. Chapter 17

Hieronymous walks quickly up the aisle, carrying not only a folder that seems to contain a large ream of paper, but two very heavy books, which he proceeds to set on my table. He takes the lefthand seat without looking directly at me.

I, however, can't take my eyes from his face. It isn't just because I haven't seen him in over two months, and have missed him like fire during all that time. It's because, frankly, he looks dreadful.

When I'd left him in England in August, he'd been under an enormous amount of stress, what with having to cover up the evidence of his father's murders to the non-magical world, and taking over his father's titles, position and estate. The former, moreover, required him to use a massive amount of white magic, a branch of the pentachromatic system that he had hitherto avoided using unless he was forced to. He'd been showing the strain - looking haggard, dropping to sleep on random pieces of furniture - but I hadn't worried about his long-term health then. I figured that after the late Lord Montague's funeral, after everything was squared away with the victims' families, after he'd got used to being in England for the long term, Hieronymous would start to feel better.

This, however, doesn't seem to be the case. His skin is dull, his hair lank, the lines under his eyes and between his brows pronounced. He's wearing a smart set of black robes, but they're creased and smell faintly of camphor. They also hang loosely on his frame, which makes it seem as though he's lost too much weight in too short a time. The overall effect is so unsettling that I hiss "what happened?" without thinking. This makes him shoot me a sharp look, and I quickly shut my mouth again.

"Everything settled?" Chairman Mather says, as though this was all in a morning's work for him. "Thaddeus, the record?"

"In the matter of the Honorable Council vee Eliza Grabiner, _nee_ Moon, the Lady Montague, Chairman Mather Presiding, Yves Terrec for the prosecution, Hieronymous Grabiner, seventeenth Viscount Montague for the defense," Thaddeus states, then sits.

"Right," Chairman Mather says. "Any other preliminary matters to discuss before we begin? Yves?"

"No, your honor," says Professor Terrec.

"And the defense?"

Hieronymous clears his throat and says "Yes - ah, yes, your honor." He shuffles the papers in front of him, all of which are covered in his neat, precise script. "Pursuant to magical statute 1(a)(2)(C), any accused magician or magical being living on this plane has the right to develop es own strategy with es representation in order to confront es accusers. By preventing me from contact with Lady Montague, she has been deprived of this right, and in consequence, I would move that this proceeding be - ah - stayed until sufficient preparation time has been permitted."

"I think you will find," the small council member says, in a high, clear voice, "that when applied to humans, the definition section of statute 1(a) specifies that it applies only to those magical citizens who have successfully graduated from a primary institute of magical education and thus reached full citizenship - which Lady Montague has not yet done."

"Yes," Hieronymous says, licks his lips and says again "yes. However, as she is being accused and tried as a citizen-"

"Chairman, if I may," Professor Terrec says, "as stated in my motion, Lord Montague has a conflict of interest that renders it extremely inadvisable to allow him to remain alone with Lady Montague for any significant period of time. If Lord Montague had taken my advice and retained _professional_ counsel-"

Hieronymous bristles at this - as, I'm sure, Professor Terrec meant him to. "Yes, you did give me that advice - while ensuring that no respectable advocate would touch my wife's case with a thirty foot wand while astride a dragon."

Professor Terrec gives the council a wide-eyed, innocent look. "Your honors, I can assure you that I've done no such thing-"

"Enough," Chairman Mather says. "Yes, the circumstances are unusual, and Lady Montague's representation has not been ideal. But a magical citizen may represent emself or es spouse in a hearing before this council, and I don't think we should put this hearing off any longer. Lady Montague receives Lord Montague's representation, but we proceed today as scheduled." He smiles genially. "A compromise. All in favor?"

This time, all council members except for the man with flaming hair raise their hands.

"Let the record show that the defense's motion to stay is denied," Chairman Mather says. "If there isn't anything else?" He looks over the three of us, but neither Professor Terrec nor Hieronymous responds. "Very well, Yves, your case."

Professor Terrec stands. "Lady Montague is accused of three counts of sabotage of a primary institute of magical education, three counts of endangering the lives of students, and one count of grievous bodily harm with intent to kill against an educatrix, one headmistress Petunia Potsdam of Iris Academy," he says.

My anxiety grows with every accusation, but at the last, my heart lifts. _She's not dead! Oh thank God - she's not dead!_ But then the last part hits me - _intent to kill_. What did Damien do to her?

Professor Terrec continues, making very grand statements about _protecting the sanctity of our beloved institutions_ and _a danger to herself and others_. I venture another look at Hieronymous. He's busy shuffling papers again, putting notes in order, and from time to time jotting something on a notepad. He's still, very assiduously, not looking at me.

"Hieronymous," I whisper as loudly as I dare. "You know I didn't do it, right?"

"As your counsel," he says, still not looking at me, "I can assure you that it makes not a whit of difference to me what you did or did not do, so long as I can convince the five of _them_ of your innocence."

"But-" I start, dismayed at this cold response.

"And I will not be able to do that," he continues, "if you don't shut up and let me hear what that son of a kobold is accusing you of."

I shut up in time to hear the last of Professor Terrec's speech. "As a consequence, I urge the council to disregard the individual consequences that conviction would bring. While I'm sure the defense will tell you that these consequences are most dire," he says with a smirk, "they can affect no more than two individuals - the two which, I would argue, are responsible for the crime currently at issue. The consequences of _not_ convicting Lady Montague, on the other hand, are far-reaching, and would impact not only our educational community, not only the country, but the international magical community as a whole. For the good of the community, the council should find the defendant guilty of all counts."

"Thank you, Yves," Chairman Mather says. "Please continue."

I wait for Professor Terrec to call a witness. But he doesn't. Instead, he launches into an even more detailed account of my crimes - beginning with my "belligerent attitude" and "rebellious nature," then starting a narrative of the events that have occurred since school started this fall.

As he speaks, I shift in my seat, nervous and uncomfortable. Like prison, most of what I know about courtrooms comes from movies and tv shows, but I know that something is wrong with Professor Terrec's legal procedure. I risk speaking to Hieronymous again, and hiss "is this right? Isn't he supposed to like... call witnesses? Present evidence?"

Hieronymous doesn't snap at me, but he doesn't look at me either. "If he does not," he mutters, "it should make my job considerably easier." Hieronymous doesn't look as though he thinks his job will get easier any time soon, and I find that my anxiety is increased rather than assuaged.

Once Professor Terrec finishes his account of my extremely hazardous, disruptive and tentacular prank on the October exam, he begins to discuss the night of the Dark Dance. His description is even stranger than before - instead of discussing me, he describes what _he_ was doing - rounding up stragglers, going to the gym for the dance, and noticing Professor Potsdam rush out of the room.

"When the headmistress did not return," he continues, in his fuzzy not-quite-an-accent, "I became most concerned. I tracked her to one of the classrooms, and this is where I found her insensible, lying on the floor. Lady Montague - the only other individual in the room - was crouching over her. It was clear to me what had happened."

I'm so absorbed in Professor Terrec's narrative that when Hieronymous stands, I don't react in time to stop him. "Wait!" I hiss, but he's already speaking.

"I'm sure that was very interesting," he says, "but unfortunately it is not at all clear to _me_ what happened, nor do I imagine it is clear to the honorable council. If Monsieur Terrec is unable to provide any proof for his assertions, I submit that the prosecution's case is entirely speculative, and ask that the council give his story no weight in rendering its decision."

Professor Terrec gives a serene smile, and continues, unruffled. "Certainly I do not expect the council to take my word alone. Fortunately I had the presence of mind to cast a memory preservation spell in order to present the incident, in its entirety, to the council."

"Of course," Chairman Mather says, and Hieronymous sits heavily in his chair. He shoots me a filthy look, and I give him an exasperated shrug. "I tried to stop you!" I mouth, but he looks away and crosses his arms in front of him.

Professor Terrec casts the necessary spell, and I can only watch, silent, as the scene plays out again. Me, in Damien's place looking panicked, throwing the small sparkly object, Professor Potsdam collapsing when it hits.

When it ends, the woman with the dark hair says "please show it again."

Professor Terrec obliges, and when the image of me rears back and throws, she says "stop there, please." The image halts, my hand in throwing position, the small object glittering, suspended in mid-air.

"What is it?" asks the woman.

"The object is difficult to see," Professor Terrec says, "but from its effect, I have reason to believe that it is a small piece of batrachite."

The small councilmember hisses in es breath, and the mist seems to quiver and condense a bit. Hieronymous, next to me, furrows his brow and scowls.

"And where would a schoolgirl obtain a piece of batrachite?" the flame-headed man asks.

"I can only speculate about that," Professor Terrec responds. "I also have no idea how she was able to obtain a half ton of live squid either, but as you see, she seems to have managed it. And with that, your honors, I rest my case."

Chairman Mather doesn't say anything for a moment, and remains staring at the small glittering object hung in the air before him. Professor Terrec makes some hand movements, and the image disappears, which seems to awaken the chairman.

"All right," he says, still sounding distracted. "all right. The defense, please."

Hieronymous swallows audibly, and then glances at me. I reach out a tentative hand and grasp the sleeve of his robe, pulling at it until he bends his head toward me.

"I was the one who told him to cast spirit echoes," I say. "I don't know what happened - Damien cast some spell and put me in his place. But I _didn't_ hurt Professor Potsdam - I called her to save my friend and he - Damien _took_ him to the Otherworld-"

"Lord Montague," Chairman Mather says, "we don't have all afternoon."

Hieronymous straightens, clears his throat, and picks a piece of paper out of his stack. The paper flaps a little - his hands are shaking, I realize. And suddenly I'm more afraid than I have been since Professor Terrec first took me to the dungeons.

"Honorable council," Hieronymous says, reading from his page. "Lady Montague has been unjustly accused of crimes committed by another. She is accused by a former prosecutor who now appears before you with an agenda that goes beyond a single conviction. As you have undoubtedly noticed, Yves Terrec has brought evidence regarding only one count of the crimes for which Lady Montague is accused. He seems to believe that on the basis of one memory, you will find Lady Montague guilty of every count against her. The memory is falsified."

The woman councilmember snorts audibly, and arches an eyebrow, causing Hieronymous to lose his place in his speech. He rattles his page.

"The memory is falsified," he repeats, "and Lady Montague is innocent on all counts."

"Thank you, Lord Montague," Chairman Mather says. "Please continue."

"I call upon the Lady Montague to testify," Hieronymous says, and I start in my chair, my hands clenching the table in fear.

Chairman Mather says, "very well. Thaddeus?"

Without a word, the clerk stands at his little desk, and motions with his hands, muttering an incantation. A small podium and seat appears between the set of five councilmembers and Professor Terrec's table. Thaddeus stands, and motions to me to go forward. I cast one glance at Hieronymous, who gives me a nod, and what I assume he means to be an encouraging smile. It looks ghastly on his strained face. I give him what I hope is a smile of my own, stand, and walk to the podium. The eyes of the councilmembers seem to crawl over my skin as I go.

When I'm seated, Hieronymous shuffles his pages again. "Lady Montague, do you understand the charges against you as the prosecution described them during the presentation of its case?"

"Y-yes," I say.

"Did you, on the morning of October twenty-eighth, sabotage the prepared examination at Iris Academy?"

"No," I say.

"Did you know anything about said sabotage?"

"No." My shoulders start to relax a little. "I didn't even know it was squids until Professor Terrec said so just now."

The flame-headed man chuckles a little at this, and when I look up at the noise, gives me a warm smile. I find this to be much more encouraging than Hieronymous's attempt at comfort.

"Did you attack your headmistress, Professor Potsdam, on the night of October thirty-first?"

"No," I say, and my voice comes out strong and clear. "I did not."

"Would you please tell the council what happened that night?" Hieronymous asks.

"All right," I say, and start from when I decided to find Ahmed in his room. All councilmembers watching me - including the mist, I suppose, but it's hard to tell. They all look puzzled and thoughtful as I tell them about Damien's plan to take Ahmed to the Otherworld, my calling on Professor Potsdam, and Damien's sudden, devastating attack.

"I didn't know that he could do anything like that," I say. "I wish I had just run - then she'd be okay." Tears spring in my eyes as I say this. "And maybe she could have gotten Ahmed - I don't know. I wish I had done it differently. But I _didn't_ attack her. I would _never_." My voice, forceful now, rings out in the room.

"All right," Chairman Mather says. "If there isn't anything else, Lord Montague?"

"No, your honor," Hieronymous says.

"Then Yves, your cross," Chairman Mather responds, and I freeze up. Nobody said anything about a cross examination - but I guess it's inevitable in a trial. This part, at least, is like the movies. I take a deep breath and steel myself for whatever is going to come.

Professor Terrec turns his serene smile to me. "Lady Montague, would you please tell me how it was that you were married to Lord Montague, despite the fact that he was an instructor at your school while you were a student?"

Hieronymous stands at his table. "Objection Chairman, this is entirely irrelevant."

"Yves, where are you going with this?" asks Chairman Mather.

"I assure you, it's quite relevant," Professor Terrec says.

"All right-" Chairman Mather starts.

"Chairman, you won't simply take his word that this is relevant?" Hieronymous insists.

"Lord Montague, our practice is to allow all information and determine how much weight to give it in rendering a decision. We'll hear Lady Montague's response and determine its relevance," Chairman Mather says sharply. "Lady Montague, if you would answer the question."

"Um," I say. I glance at Hieronymous, who's seating himself and giving the council a filthy look. "There was this manus, and it attacked me, so I had to get married."

"And why did the manus attack you?" Professor Terrec asks.

"Uh, well, it was attacking - uh - Hieron - uh - Professor Grabiner and I ran into the protective circle - and it caught me."

"Why was it attacking Lord Montague?" asks Professor Terrec.

"I don't know," I say.

"Had he been experimenting with the spirit?" asks Professor Terrec.

With a sinking sensation, I realize that Professor Terrec must know all of this already - it's what he dug out of my head when he'd cast that strange spell in his office. "I don't know," I said. "Professor Potsdam said so, but I don't-"

"Experimenting with a manus in a school filled with students - students sleeping in their beds, students who might have been killed had his spell gone further out of control - killed as you nearly were?" asks Professor Terrec.

"What? No - I - he _saved_ me-"

"And over the course of the summer holiday, he lured you into the Otherworld, did he not?"

" _No_ , I went on my own-"

The councilmembers all look to me with alarm - except the mist, whose golden core flickers rapidly.

"And so," Professor Terrec continues, serene as always, "Lord Montague has exhibited a pattern of placing students in danger through his incompetence. And now his _wife_ is doing the same."

I don't know what to say to this - I sit, in stunned silence, as the councilmembers continue to stare at me.

"Now, Lady Montague, I should like to ask you how one Damien Ramsey - a known cambion - could possibly cross the wards against cambions placed around Iris Academy on the night of the Dark Dance?"

"I don't _know_ ," I say, then remember something. "Profesor Potsdam - she said that she knew the cambion wards wouldn't affect him!"

"Oh?" Professor Terrec says. "If that is the case, why did she request that I refresh them on the night of the dance?"

"I-" I say, unable to think of an answer.

"And finally," Professor Terrec says, "if I am correct and Professor Potsdam was felled by a piece of batrachite, how would a cambion handle such an object without being stricken himself?"

"I don't even know what batrachite _is_ ," I say, irritation overriding my common sense for a moment.

"Your honor, she is clearly lying," Professor Terrec says smoothly.

"Then swear me in!" I yell. "I'll promise to tell the truth and if I don't, I lose my magic - isn't that how it's supposed to work?"

"Lady Montague," Chairman Mather says, "while perjury is a serious crime, it is not one that merits the automatic loss of one's magic. We do not swear in witnesses at magical trials. I suggest you calm down."

"Bu-" I sputter, pretty far from being able to calm down.

"Yves, do you have anything else?" asks Chairman Mather.

"I believe that I have made my point," says Professor Terrec.

"Very well. Lord Montague?"

I look at Hieronymous, begging inside my head for him to have some exonerating piece of evidence up his sleeve. But he only looks down at the table in front of him and says "no, your honor."

Thaddeus steps forward then, and helps me down from the podium. I cross to my seat beside Hieronymous, and this time it's me who won't look at him as I do so.

"In that case, we may begin deliberations," Chairman Mather says. "Councilor Blaising, would you care to start?"

 _Blaising?_ With a jolt, I realize why the flame-headed councilman looks and sounds familiar - he must be one of Jacob's dads.

Mr. Blaising frowns at me. "To be frank," he says, "I'm having a very hard time accepting that this girl is the hardened criminal Yves seems to think she is. I happen to know that my son is friends with her."

 _Jacob said we were friends?_ I'm more stunned by this disclosure than I was at realizing I was in front of Jacob's dad.

"In that case," Professor Terrec says, "I'm surprised that you did not recuse yourself."

"Are you questioning my judgment?" councilor Blaising says, leaning forward in his chair.

"No, only your objectivity," Professor Terrec says.

"Well, _objectively_ speaking," councilor Blaising says, a snap in his voice, "I agree with Lord Montague that there is no evidence connecting Lady Montague to the school examination sabotage. And I don't appreciate your attempts to conflate those charges, Yves."

The mist's glowing core begins to flicker rapidly, and the other councilmembers turn to watch.

"Yes, without any evidence other than Yves's word, I agree that the evidence against Lady Montague is entirely circumstantial," Chairman Mather says, after the mist has finished flickering. "But her attack on Professor Potsdam is another matter."

"I suppose the memory may have been tampered with-" the woman says.

Thaddeus clears his throat. "Your honors, I tested the memory myself. It has been untouched since its formation."

"I still cannot understand how a schoolgirl would get her hands on a piece of batrachite," councilor Blaising says.

"Yves, I believe you said that you might have some idea?" Chairman Mather says, lifting his eyebrows in a way that makes him look a bit like a basset hound.

"As I said, I can only speculate about where Lady Montague obtained the batracite," Professor Terrec says, "but I am afraid that I have reason to believe that her husband sent it to her. He has been sending a good deal of contraband over the course of the fall." Saying this, he pulls his large black satchel from under his table, opens it, and produces my pillowcase - books, pillow and all - placing it on the table beforehand. He sets the two books next to each other, then, with a flourish, slits the pillow itself so that the poly-fill stuffing and the crumpled letters begin to ooze out of it.

I give a dismayed groan, seeing all my private correspondence laid out on the table for everyone to see. I glance at Hieronymous again, but he's watching Professor Terrec with dangerously narrowed eyes.

Professor Terrec lifts my book on Nicholas Hawksmoor. "I happen to know that Lord Montague sent Lady Montague this book on the first weekend of term." He stands and crosses to the council, and hands Chairman Mather the book. "Innocuous in itself, but it is technically against school rules."

Chairman Mather opens the book to its frontispiece and reads "eighteen sixty-two - yes, I'm afraid so." He passes the book to the mist, who ingests it and flips through the pages as the book floats around its core. "And the other?" Chairman Mather asks.

"A considerably more serious matter," Professor Terrec says, handing _Traditions of Witcherie_ to the chairman.

"I see," says Chairman Mather as he flips through the book.

"If you would care to turn to page two hundred and eight?" Professor Terrec says.

Chairman Mather turns to the page and reads aloud. "Among all poiſonnes most feared by faery-folk, the moſt inſiddeus is the Toadſtone, called batrachite by the alchemiſts. Its mereſt touch is ſufficient to render a faery or demon inſenſible to all but the moſt cunning aid." He looks up at me. "Lady Montague, you had this book in your possession and you claim not to know what batrachite is?"

"I - I hadn't gotten to that part yet," I say, well aware of how lame I sound. "And anyway, I didn't get it from Hie - Prof - Lord Montague. I got that book at the library at school."

Chairman Mather frowns at me, then opens the book to the back. "I do not see a library mark," he says, then turns the book so that I can see the inside cover. The library card that Mr. Underberg had marked back when I'd checked it out has vanished, leaving not the slightest trace.

All at once, I realize that the only way my book could be cleared of its library card was if Professor Terrec himself had removed it. Tiny pistons in my brain seem to click into place as I finally understand what's going on. He's framed me. He's _framed_ me, pretending to regret having to bring up my library book, but all the while waiting for his chance to slip this final knife in my back. My temper, which has been fraying since the start of this farce of a trial, suddenly snaps.

"You son of a _bitch_!" I scream at Professor Terrec. I nearly launch myself at where he's sitting, but Hieronymous' hand falls heavy on my shoulder and grips it tight.

"Eliza," he mutters under his breath, and I sit back in my chair, still seething.

"Another outburst, Lady Montague, and I will hold you in contempt," Chairman Mather says, his voice cold. "We will deliver you back to your holding cell and continue the proceeding in your absence."

" _Contempt_ is correct, your honor," Professor Terrec says smoothly. "Lady Montague has continuously exhibited contempt for your authority, and for mine, in a manner typical of all wildseed students. I submit that we cannot allow anyone with such disrespect for the power to which she was born corrupt the rest of my students, as she has already begun to do. Her attitude is exacerbated by that of her husband, whose continuing practice of putting student lives in danger for his own personal whims has gone unchecked for too long. Lest we forget, as a student he was responsible for the death of one of the most promising magical minds of his generation, and while her death was ruled an unfortunate accident, his behavior over the years has certainly caused me to question that judgment."

Hieronymous' hand on my shoulder tightens so hard that my joints seem to squeak in protest, but I stay still and silent.

"Lord Montague is not under our jurisdiction, and is not on trial today," says councilor Blaising.

"No, but the extent to which he influences his wife cannot be ignored," says Professor Terrec, "and I ask that the council give very serious thought to whether it should request an investigation by the UK's council."

"Enough," says Chairman Mather. "Does the council have any further questions?" None of the council members respond. "In that case, I believe that we are ready to issue a verdict. Lady Montague, please stand before us."

Hieronymous lets go of my shoulder and I stand, walking between the two tables and stopping just in front of Chairman Mather's seat. I have to force myself to meet his eyes, and when I do, I see that they're watery, blue, and filled with pity.

"Lady Montague has been charged with three counts of sabotaging her school's examinations, and three related counts of endangering the lives of students at Iris Academy as a result of this sabotage. All in favor of finding her guilty?"

As I look at the council only one member - the small, lithe creature - raises es hand.

"Let the record show that the council finds Lady Montague not guilty of the sabotage of the Iris Academy examinations," Chairman Mather says, and for one moment, I let myself feel a tiny glow of hope within my chest.

"Lady Montague has also been charged with one count of grievous bodily harm with intent to kill against Professor Petunia Postdam, headmistress of Iris Academy. All in favor of finding her guilty."

The small creature raises es hand, as does the woman. The mist shivers in its chair for a moment, then it too raises a tendril of smoke. Finally, Chairman Mather lifts his hand. Only councilor Blaising sits in defiance, his arms crossed obdurately before him.

The hope within me flickers, then dies. The whole world seems to have gone grey around me.

"Let the record show that the council finds the Lady Montague guilty of this crime," says Chairman Mather. "And now with regard to the sentence-" he begins, but that's when the spell hits me in the back.

I stagger forward, letting out a cry of surprise. At first it feels as though someone behind me has pushed a hand between my shoulderblades and given me a shove - but then the burning sensation begins to well up inside me. I try willing it away but it increases in intensity, as though I'm being set afire from the inside out. There's a strange rushing sound in my ears like a sudden wind, and the light in the room goes bright - then brighter - then blinding. And then as quickly as it had begun, the light, sound and pain dissolve into nothing - but something else in me seems to drain with it. I straighten, pressing a hand to my sternum, trying to determine what just happened to me.

" _Yves!_ " Chairman Mather says, leaping to his feet. "What in Dis' name have you _done_?"

"Merely carried out the inevitable sentence," Professor Terrec says behind me.

Councilor Blaising is on his feet as well. "We have not yet _issued_ a sentence - this is completely beyond the pale!"

"Lord Montague," snaps the small creature in a commanding voice, "Sit down _now_. If you approach the prisoner you will be restrained."

I whirl around in time to see Hieronymous halt in mid-stride. He's gone entirely white. He straightens slowly, and takes a step back, then another, then sits.

"It's _him_ who should be restrained," insists councilor Blaising, who's pointing at Professor Terrec. "Taking a sentence into his own hands is sufficient grounds to be held in contempt of council. I insist that we-"

"Sit down yourself, Simon!" growls Chairman Mather, who has dropped his formal demeanor. He sounds so fierce that I can't blame councilor Blaising for sitting down immediately. Chairman Mather turns back to me. "Are you all right, Lady Montague?"

"I-" I start, trying to figure out what's just happened. Nothing feels different, not exactly but there's something strange inside of me. Or rather, there's something inside me that isn't strange. Or - there's something _not_ inside of me where there once was.

"My magic?" I say in a hesitant whisper. I feel for it inwardly, in a way I hadn't even realized I could until now. And I feel - nothingness. I'm hollow, empty as a mummified corpse.

Chairman Mather raises himself to his full height once again. "Yves, I _wish_ you would have waited."

"I consider her too dangerous to leave her with her magic while you considered the sentence," Professor Terrec says loftily. "It was a matter of the council's own security. I am ready to be punished, if you see fit."

"No, no," Chairman Mather says, sounding distracted and vague. He sits back in his chair. "It had to be done, but there is the matter of Lord Montague to think of now. He is not under our jurisdiction, and we cannot take his fate into our own hands."

 _They're going to take his magic too_ , I realize. _If they wipe my mind, his magic goes too_. I glance at him, leaning back in his chair as though he's been stunned. They can't. They _can't_.

"Wait," I say, "wait."

I feel the council's eyes on me, and Professor Terrec's, and Thaddeus' too. But I can't tear my own gaze from Hieronymous.

With the tiniest, slightest movement possible, he lifts his hands until they're just above his table's edge, and flicks his fingers towards himself.

 _Come here_.

I drop my gaze, not even daring to acknowledge the gesture. "I have to tell you something important."

"Your honors," Professor Terrec says dryly, "I believe we have established that this girl is a liar, and not worth listening to."

"Yes!" I blurt before any of the councilmembers can say anything. "I lied to you! But I have to tell you the truth now."

"Lady Montague, what are you saying?" councilor Blaising says in a quiet voice.

"I was afraid I'd get in trouble," I say. "But it's Professor Potsdam. You have to help her, and unless I tell the truth, you can't do that. So I want to make a deal. I tell you the truth and you - just stick me in a dungeon until January. Just til then. And then he can divorce me, and he'll have kept his promise, and he won't get punished for what I did. Okay?"

The silence that greets my words is so loud that my ears seem to ring.

Finally, Chairman Mather speaks up. "Lady Montague, we cannot promise you that we will do this. But we will hear you out and make our decision after you have finished what you have to say."

"I have to protest. The record in this proceeding is now closed, and-" Professor Terrec starts, before he's silenced by a terrible glance from the Chairman.

"Please go on, Lady Montague," the Chairman says, gesturing to the podium on my left. I cross to it, and start to mount the step that leads to the seat, but then think better of it and step down - first slipping the soft prison slippers from my feet, and praying that no one notices.

"It's no good just telling you, I have to show you or I won't get it right," I say. I turn, putting the podium to my back, and look up. The council, Thaddeus, and Professor Terrec's eyes are all fixed upon me, and so no one sees Hieronymous edge out of his seat.

"I did go to the dance like I said. And I did leave just after it started to go looking for Ahmed. But when I went into the classroom where he was, Professor Potsdam was already there - and Damien Ramsey, too."

Professor Terrec clicks his tongue loudly. "You see, Chairman? I told you, she's lying."

" _Enough_ , Yves," Chairman Mather says. "We will hear her out."

Hieronymous has shifted to the righthand seat at the table, and is hovering slightly by its far edge.

"Professor Potsdam was lying on the ground," I say, "and Damien was crouching over her like this." I crouch, placing my hands flat on the floor. I keep my left foot flat, and brace my right foot against the podium. I fear for a moment that it's not anchored to the floor, but as I lean my weight back upon it, the podium holds. I shift, balancing on those four points, pressing my weight into the podium.

"And then he - he-" I start, and let myself fall silent. Then I empty my head of everything around me. No councilmembers. No Professor Terrec. No Hieronymous, even. There's only me, grounding myself into my stance, tensing my muscles, preparing.

"Then he what?" snaps Professor Terrec, his voice as harsh and dry as the crack of a starting pistol.

I push off from the podium, pumping my arms, knifing my knees into the air as I sprint the gauntlet between Professor Terrec and the councilmembers towards Hieronymous. There are sudden shouts of alarm, and I hear a sudden _whoosh_ \- some kind of spell, and it's loud. But the caster has underestimated my speed, and it flies by, leaving only a crackling heat at my back.

"Yves, _stop_ ," someone yells behind me, but I hear Professor Terrec already in the middle of another incantation.

 _This one's going to hit_ , I realize, and I _kick_ with all my might, vaguely conscious that I have never in all my life run as fast as I am running now.

I'm at the rightmost table, and Hieronymous moves then, faster than I can see - placing himself directly in my path. I'm going to smash into him, I realize, but I don't stop or even slow. And at the very last instant, just before I'm sure I'll knock him off his feet, he pivots to the side as graceful as a dancer. I feel the heat of the second spell behind me, some kind of fireball gaining intensity as it's about to hit.

Hieronymous' arms close around me and the whole world goes black.


	18. Chapter 18

I slam into a wall head-first and collapse, an enormous weight falling onto me. I struggle against it and realize that the weight has form and limbs - it's my husband, who has allowed my momentum to smash him into the wall as well.

Hieronymous gains his feet first, grasps me by my upper arms, and hauls me upright.

"Do you have any idea _whatsoever_ of what you've just done?" he shouts, holding his face an inch from mine.

For a second, I'm only stunned. But a sudden rush of relief mixed with fear floods my system, all of it topped with a froth of sheer outrage.

"It _wasn't my fault_!" I shout back at full volume. "Professor Terrec set me up!"

"I _told_ you not to antagonize the man-"

"Yeah, about two months too late!"

"You might have told me what you were doing-"

"Oh, _right_ , because I'm the only one who hasn't been saying what they've been doing?"

Hieronymous' grip on my arms tightens, and he gives me a brisk little shake. "Eliza, this is _not_ about me-"

"Well you could have fooled me back there!" I shout back. "All that stuff about you putting student lives in danger, and about Vi-"

" _DON'T_ ," he shouts in my face, flecks of saliva spattering my cheeks. He takes breath as though he's about to say something else, but we're interrupted by a brisk, loud knock at the door to the room we've found ourselves in.

Hieronymous mutters a curse under his breath, lets me go, and flings a spell at the door. The knocking immediately ceases, but Hieronymous doesn't - he goes on casting spell after spell at each of the walls in turn, until they glow with strange looking blue glyphs which recede after a few moments.

As he does this, I get my first proper look at the room. It's a hotel suite, and one of the largest and nicest I've ever seen, with spare, modern furniture. Two of the walls are actually smoked glass - floor to ceiling windows that look over a familiar skyline.

"Are we in New York?" I ask, though the view of the Chrysler Building renders the question superfluous.

Hieronymous, who is hauling his battered leather case out of a closet, snaps "of course we're in New York, where do you think you've been?"

"Oh, _right_ ," I snap back, "the prison excursions to Central Park should have clued me in." But the retort is a little half-hearted - my rage seems to be draining away.

 _This isn't how I wanted this to go_ , I realize. I'd planned to greet my husband politely on the day he came back from England, maybe wearing a pretty dress and lipstick, not frumpy, baggy prison clothes. And I certainly hadn't wanted my first meeting with him to start with a screaming argument.

With a snap of his wrist, Hieronymous finishes a spell that sends the contents of the room flying out of drawers and closets, and into the suitcase. I have to dive to the carpet to dodge a flock of shirts, and when I do, I feel a sudden stinging pain on the back of my neck. Cautiously I reach back to touch the skin there, and hiss my breath in when my fingers find their mark. Something's wrong, and I can't quite put my finger on it - or rather, I _am_ putting my fingers on it, but there's a disconnect between my hands and my brain, preventing me from figuring out what the problem must be.

Hieronymous snaps the lid of his case shut and lifts it by the handle. "Come on," he says.

"Wait," I reply. I take my fingers off my neck, expecting the pain to lessen, but it doesn't. Instead, it increases to a nearly unbearable throb. "There's something wrong-"

"We don't have time!" snaps Hieronymous. "The room is too high above the ground for me to keep the wards up-"

As is to punctuate his point, another loud knock sounds from the suite's door. Hieronymous curses again and stalks to where I'm still lying on the floor. He grasps my arm again, ignoring the yelp of pain I make as he does, and teleports us from the room.

We're suddenly standing in a side street of a suburb populated with cookie cutter houses and above-ground swimming pools. The trees lining the street would provide leafy shade in the summer, but they're stripped of nearly all of their leaves. It's also bitterly cold, and I shiver in my too-light prison clothes.

"How long have I-" I start, but I don't have time to finish before we teleport again. This time, we're in the middle of a bare field, in which I see a few cows in the distance. I barely have time to take it all in before Hieronymous casts another teleport spell.

Scenery begins to flash before my eyes, as though Hieronymous and I were spinning on a roulette wheel painted with New England scenery instead of colors and numbers. I stop trying to figure out where we are, and close my eyes, concentrating on not being sick.

When we stop teleporting for more than a few seconds, I cautiously open my eyes. We're in a little clearing in a forest; leaf-less trees and evergreens crowd around us. There's an unkempt dirt path studded with rocks and little grassy patches leading in a winding way up a nearby hill. The sun has begun to dip below the trees, and I shiver at the cold.

Hieronymous is in the middle of another teleportation spell, and I brace myself to move again. But when he casts, we don't move. He tries again, and again, we stay rooted to the spot. He then casts a sort of probing spell, too advanced for me to follow, but the results seem to satisfy him.

"Warded," he says. "Just as well. Come on." He conjures a spell, hands moving so quickly I can barely follow the positions he's taking. When he releases the spell, a gossamer thread moves in the air, taking the shape of a strange glyph - and then it's gone, before I can really take the shape in. Seemingly satisfied, he casts another spell that surrounds him with a bubble of warmth against the evening chill, and sets off up the path.

" _Wait_ ," I say, standing my ground as he moves off, carrying the warmth with him. He whirls around, his eyes narrowed, his voice low and dangerous.

"Eliza," he says, "I certainly hope that you are clever enough to understand that the pair of us are in some very serious trouble, and that if we do not move extremely quickly, we will be in worse trouble still."

"Yeah, trouble, I kind of figured that much out. But _I_ can't go on any nature hike in bare feet." I point down, and his eyes flick to my feet, which are indeed bare, not to mention nearly frozen to the ground.

All traces of anger leave Hieronymous' voice, which now sounds only thoughtful. "Please tell me," he says, "what on earth possessed you to remove your shoes?"

"I didn't have shoes, I had prison slippers," I say, "and if I hadn't taken them off, I would have slipped on the council room floor while I was running, and I'd be in a dungeon right now. And if Professor Terrec had anything to say about it, so would you. So please give me a little credit? And a pair of shoes maybe?"

Hieronymous doesn't argue, but considers me for a moment, then casts a spell. It doesn't outfit me with shoes, but thickens the bottoms of my feet until they're tough as leather soles.

"Great," I say, trudging up the path toward Hieronymous. "I ask for shoes, and you give me hobbit feet."

"Outside of my suitcase, I don't have sufficient material to transform into shoes, so it was either that or levitate you and lead you about on a tether like a child's balloon. So if that is what you wish me to do, by all means, continue to complain."

"I'll _walk_ ," I mutter, though I have to suppress a smile. With all the strange, nasty events that have occurred during the day, this is the first time that Hieronymous has sounded like - well - _himself_.

We walk along the path that leads up the hill, Hieronymous striding with purpose, and me struggling to keep up so that I can stay within the perimeter of his heat spell. Despite all the running I've done the past two months, I find myself out of breath quickly, which is a little disheartening - so much for getting back in shape. I'm puffing so hard that I find it difficult to ask questions as we go, which might be deliberate on Hieronymous' part. Once this thought hits me, I feel indignant enough that I start asking anyway.

"Where are we - _huff_ \- going?"

"Safe house," Hieronymous snaps without turning around.

"What do we - _huff_ \- do when we get - _huff_ \- there?"

"I'm sure I couldn't say." He leans forward to scale an outcrop of stones that jut out of the middle of the path, and I scramble after him. The smarting pain in my neck, which had receded during our whirlwind teleportation tour, has started to return worse than ever. I grit my teeth against it and keep walking.

"But are we gonna be - _huff_ \- safe there?"

"So its title would imply," Hieronymous says.

"Are we, like - _huff_ \- fugitives?"

Hieronymous lets out a breath through his nose before responding "it appears so."

"Well, I mean - _huff_ \- don't you think it's a little-"

He whirls on me. "Say _romantic_ ," he says. "Say romantic _once_ , and I assure you, I will have no compunction with taking you straight back to the council and turning myself in with my most abject apologies for obstructing their justice."

I grin and stick my tongue out at him. He gives me his fiercest look and an exasperated sigh, then turns to walk back up the path, faster than ever.

The path winds up and up and up. The sun has disappeared, and when I can't keep up with Hieronymous, the cold nips at my heels like an over-eager puppy. It's much colder than I remember it being, even at the ends of October, so when I catch my breath after several minutes, I gasp "how - _huff_ \- long was I - _huff_ \- in there?"

"As I understand it, you were incarcerated for one month," Hieronymous says over his shoulder. His pronouncement shocks me so much that I stop, and a sudden wave of freezing cold washes over me as Hieronymous moves away. A _month_. I've missed the makeup exam - the school fundraiser - Thanksgiving with my parents. No chicken-pesto-courgette potpie, no jellied cranberry sauce from a can that my mom insists on every year, even though dad and I complain that it's gross. We always ate it anyway, and I'd once caught dad slicing the leftover jelly to stack on enormous leftover turkey sandwiches late at night. "Thanksgiving condensed," he'd told me with a wink, and made one for me, and we'd sat at the kitchen table stuffing ourselves, giggling and shushing each other so mom wouldn't wake up.

They'd have had Thanksgiving without me, maybe a little sad over another Thanksgiving by themselves without the child they'd always wanted to have - Alex if it was a boy, Eliza if it was a girl. Or maybe they're not even sad, maybe they've used the vacation to jet off somewhere lovely - Paris or the British Virgin Islands, or Morocco.

The sudden heat that engulfs me - warm as Morocco must be in the fall - shocks me out of my reverie. "If you don't want to go back in for another month," he snaps, "I suggest you get moving."

I don't respond, but just nod and continue with him up the path, trying not to let him hear me sniffle.

I see the house several minutes before we reach it. It's large and very New England, Victorian by way of the puritanical, all straight lines and jutting gables, a widow's walk set at the top of one roof. Most of the windows are pitch dark, and as we get closer, the light Hieronymous has conjured shows that they've been boarded up. There are a few windows with a yellow glow behind them, so it's clear that the house is occupied, though I'm not sure by what. In the dark of evening, it looks as though it could easily house all manner of things - rats, strange toxic fungi, hungry ghosts - or worse - _cockroaches_.

If Hieronymous agrees with me about the spooky nature of the house, he doesn't show it. He strides straight to the front door and knocks loudly, and with purpose. Three loud knocks, a pause, two quieter knocks, pause again, and three loud knocks. I wait beside him, shivering despite being inside the bubble of warmth and light my husband has conjured.

We wait for what seems like a long time before the door is opened a crack. All I can see within is an enormous backlit shadow, which speaks to us in a disarmingly high voice.

"No solicitors!" it squeaks.

Hieronymous has his hand on the door opening before the shadow can shut it. "As I've passed through your wards and have just used your coded knock," he says through his teeth, "I should think that I was _not_ a solicitor, shouldn't I?"

"You're not? Oh - that's unfortunate, I was just thinking that I ought to get a new vacuum cleaner, or perhaps a religion. If you see any solicitors, you'll let them know to stop by, won't you? Or don't - whatever you prefer. Good bye."

The shadow moves to close the door again, but Hieronymous slams his hand on it. "I am claiming sanctuary," he says.

"So sorry - we're fresh out," the shadow says. "Try back tomorrow, although I wouldn't count on it, it takes so long to ferment." E tries to shut the door again, and Hieronymous shoves it in, hard enough that it swings open, letting our light in and revealing the shadow's form. It's a man - one of the most gigantic men I've ever seen. He's nearly seven feet tall, with a barrel chest and an even larger belly beneath it. His head is shaved, and his eyes are brown and huge with anxiety. He relinquishes his hold on the door and begins wringing his huge hands.

"All _right_ ," he says, "all _right_ \- just come into my house. Take my things - I don't care. Take it all."

Hieronymous takes a step over the threshold, but the huge man suddenly steps forward.

"But if you are claiming sanctuary-" he starts.

" _Yes_ ," Hieronymous snaps. He casts the complicated spell again, the thread of light passing through the air and forming the symbol in the air for only an instant before it vanishes.

"Then come in," the large man says, and steps back, allowing Hieronymous to enter the doorway. He steps in, but when I move to follow him, the big man steps into my path.

"Her too," he says, and I look up, panicking.

"She is under my protection," Hieronymous says.

"That's all very well," the big man says, no trace of his former meekness in his voice. "But she needs to demonstrate if she wants to stay."

"She happens to be my wife," Hieronymous says, and when the big man and I glance to Hieronymous, he's holding a crackling ball of electricity between his palms. It flashes and twitches, illuminating the three of us with an anemic blue glow.

"Oh! Well, in that case," the big man says hurriedly, "she's quite welcome. Come in, come in." He ushers me across the threshold, and I step into the house.

The foyer is cavernous and cold, with a huge winding staircase leading to an upper walkway.

"It's so nice to have guests," the huge man says as he leads us into the back of the house - as though he hadn't just tried to turn us away. "We have so much that needs doing - the plumbing is a horrorshow of course, and the insulation. Now that winter is on us, the wind is going to blow straight through, so if you could just see about shoring us up-"

"If you would be so kind," Hieronymous says through a clenched jaw, "and unless we are staying in the servants' quarters-"

"Oh your room - of course," the huge man says, and steers us back to where we came, towards the staircase. We ascend, our path lit by one of Hieronymous' light spells, and turn into the first door on the left.

"Here you are!" the big man says, throwing the door wide and stepping back. "Honeymoon suite."

Hieronymous doesn't step inside, but gives the big man a look that would probably kill someone smaller. "If you have the space," he says, "I should really prefer separate quarters."

"Oh?" says the big man. "Isn't she your wife? And under your protection?"

There is a silence that seems to last eons.

Hieronymous, uncharacteristically, breaks first. He brings a hand to his forehead, pressing a knuckle between his eyebrows where that line has etched itself so indelibly over the past few months. "All right," he says. "All right. Just leave us alone. Please."

"Certainly!" the big man says, rising onto his toes. "I'm making supper - I'll call up when it's ready." Without another word, he traipses down the staircase and into the black of the foyer. I watch him until he disappears into the gloom.

"Well," Hieronymous says, "go on."

I can't think of anything to say, so I walk into the room. It's pitch black, so until Hieronymous steps in behind me and casts a light spell, I can't see a thing. Once he does, he illuminates a large room with a bed covered in dusty sheets, a dresser, and several corner cobwebs. There's a pair of windows, both covered in heavy curtains. One door leads to what looks like a black and white tiled bathroom.

The light shifts as Hieronymous walks into the room, and then sits on the bed, releasing a puff of dust that could be decades old. He rests his elbows on his knees, and his chin in his hands, looking distracted and far off.

"Um," I say. "So. Safe house."

He grunts at me vaguely, still not looking at me.

"So now that we're here what do we do?"

His eyes flick up, and he looks at me until my skin crawls under his eyes.

" _You_ should take a bath," he says. "You look like a Guy I've just filched from a bonfire."

Even though I don't quite know what that means, the way he says the remark stings. I flinch, and he looks away. Without saying anything more, I turn and go into the bathroom.


	19. Chapter 19

The bathroom is dim with the light Hieronymous has conjured in the bedroom, but even in that flickering glow, my own face in the mirror makes me start. I flip the light switch, hoping that the reflection was a trick of the lack of light, but when my face is fully revealed, it's even worse.

Both my eyes and cheeks seem to have sunk into my face, and there are deep circles under my eyes. My skin is dull and greasy, and my lips are cracked and flaking. But the real mess is my hair.

At first I don't quite realize what's wrong with my hair, other than the fact that it looks funny - different, somehow, in a way I can't quite figure out. It's only when I bring my hand to touch the ends that I realize what happened. The ends are not just dry, they're crispy, and bits of hair fall to the floor when I rub a strand between my fingers. It was the flare spell - Professor Terrec's spell has scorched the back of my neck and a full inch of my hair, possibly more in the back. _He tried to kill me_ , I think, _and it nearly worked_. If I had been running even a split second slower, he would have caught my head in the flare - not just my hair. For some reason, though, I don't feel frightened. I feel too dull to be afraid, too numb from the events of the day. Mostly what I feel is disappointment.

 _Why disappointed?_ the gaunt reflection in the bathroom mirror seems to ask.

 _Well, I just thought-_ I think, floundering a little.

 _Oh, I see_ , says the reflection. _You were hoping that if you saw_ him _again, he'd tell you that you were pretty, is that it?_

That is it, and I'm so sickened by the thought that I turn away from the mirror, unable even to face myself.

I shut the door and run a bath in the large tub - there's no showerhead, but the fact that there's hot running water in this heap of a house is encouraging enough. There also isn't any shampoo, just a hard bar of soap, so I try to use that to wash the frizzled ends out of my hair. It doesn't seem to work very well - they seem to congeal into an ashy, gummy clump that feels disgusting and smells even worse. I try to wash the burn on the back of my neck, but it smarts so much that I can barely touch it. I'll have to ask for a healing spell from Hieronymous, though I don't think anything can be done about my hair besides cutting the burned part off.

Once I'm fully washed, dried, and dressed once again in my charred prison tunic and shorts, I go back into the bedroom. Hieronymous is there, but he's fast asleep. He's slumped halfway across the bed on a diagonal, one of his feet still nearly on the floor. During our stay in England, he'd exhibited the surprising - and to my insomnia-liable mind, enviable - ability to drop to sleep anywhere, at any time. But now that I think about it, that was during a time when, like now, he'd been expending enormous amounts of magical energy, and I begin to wonder whether he hadn't been falling asleep so much as passing out from sheer depletion.

I cross the room to stand over him, wondering what I should do. His appearance is significantly improved by sleep - the lines on his face are smoothed out, and even the ashy pallor of his skin is a little lessened. It almost seems a shame to wake him, but the throbbing pain in my neck has increased in intensity again. I reach a hand out, grasp him by the shoulder and give it a little shake. "Hieronymous?"

His entire body twitches, and I jerk my hand back, suddenly frightened that he might have a seizure. But it only lasts an instant, and he settles back down again with a moan.

 _Okay, maybe let him sleep_ , I decide. Maybe the large man who's our host can help me instead, even if he is a little scary. I take a minute to swallow my fear down, then pad out of the room on my new hobbit feet.

 _I'll have to ask him to change those back too_ , I think, though I have to admit that they're handy, impervious as they are to the chill of the upstairs hallway floor.

At first I worry that I might lose my way in the cavernous house, but one I get down the stairs, all I need to do is follow my ears - the man is humming something in his high-pitched voice - and my nose. There's an impossibly delicious smell wafting from the back of the house, and as my stomach rumbles, I remember that it's been a month since I've eaten anything other than prison loaf.

The sound and smell leads me to the kitchen, which is cozy and warm with the heat of the stove. I stand in the doorway watching the large man bustle about, still humming. He stirs something in a pot, then opens the oven door and takes out a Dutch oven and removes the lid. The smell of just-baked bread permeates the room, and I suddenly decide that I'd risk fighting a dozen fire-breathing dragons and a life-sized Chester for the mere possibility that this man might let me put whatever has just come out of the oven into my mouth as quickly as possible.

"Hi," I say, and the man turns to see me.

"Oh," he says. "Hello. A few more minutes - why don't you sit down?"

I sit on a stool next to the enormous wood table in the center of the room. It's littered with an assortment of knives, vegetable ends, bowls of various substances, and a small pile of flour.

"Where's your husband, then?" the man asks in a pleasant tone, much different from the way he'd greeted us at the door.

"Asleep," I reply, hoping I'm not giving too much information away. "We had a hard day."

"Well I'll keep something for him, but he'll have to heat it himself, house rules," the man says. "I'm Kip," he adds, holding a flour-streaked hand out to me.

"Eliza," I say, and take the proffered hand. It envelops my own hand almost entirely, and I try to keep myself from thinking that he could probably crush my hand in his if he squeezed hard enough. He only presses gently as he shakes my hand, then lets me go.

"Welcome, Eliza," says Kip. "You shouldn't mind my manner at the door by the way - I need to make sure everyone who comes into this house is in need of sanctuary."

"Yeah, well, that's us," I say. Then, remembering my manners, I add "thank you."

Kip gives me a smile then, revealing short teeth and wide expanses of pink gum. "It's what I'm here for. Now how about getting you some supper?"

My stomach, helpless to the suggestion combined with the tantalizing smells in the kitchen, rumbles again. "Yes, please," I say, "but, uh-" I trail off unsure about how to ask him for help.

"Hmm?" he asks, half turned to the pot on the stove.

My cheeks go hot, but I don't know how to turn back now. "Could - could you look at my neck, please? I think I hurt it or something."

Kip moves around my chair and I lift the charred remnants of my hair to let him have a closer look. After a moment, Kip clicks his tongue.

"Is it bad?" I ask.

"Not bad," Kip says, "but it does look painful. Pity, it's a very nice shade of red; if it didn't pain you, I'd propose that you keep it."

"Can you heal it for me?" I ask.

Kip moves back in front of me, and I can see that he's frowning. "I don't think-" he says.

"Just a basic healing spell, that's all," I say.

"I'm afraid I don't know any," says Kip.

"They're easy, look - just hook your thumbs underhand like this," I start, taking the hand position myself. "Then turn your hands parallel to each other, and pull in with your fingers." I continue to demonstrate, both hands raised before my face. But I can't help starting to feel downcast. Before, whenever I'd done this spell - or any spell, for that matter- I could feel the air between my hands thicken and solidify as the spell forms. Now, I feel nothing - I'm holding empty air.

"And then you say ' _iaomai_ ,' and open your hands to release," I finish.

Kip looks skeptical, but gives the spell a try. Even as he starts, I realize that he's hopeless. His hand positions are a mess - there's little flexibility in his finger joints - and even when I do the spell along with him, he messes up the order of the gestures and flubs the incantation. He tries again, and misses. My frustration begins to grow, exacerbated by the persistent throb in my neck.

After his fourth try, I snap at him. "It's just one simple spell! Can you do any magic at all?"

I immediately regret saying it - what if Kip gets angry and throws us out? - but he dips his head and gives me a bashful smile.

"Well, yes," he says, "I _can_ do magic - I'm just not very good at it."

I frown, taken aback. "Really? Didn't you go to school or anything?"

"I did," Kip says, "for all of two weeks. But I was so hopeless, the headmaster of the Sagebrush School decided I wasn't worth teaching, so he expelled me. Or, he would have, if I hadn't realized what he was about to do. So I ran away before he could do it."

"Didn't he try to find you?" I ask.

"He may have," Kip says. "Since I was so wretched, he may not have considered me much of a priority. At any rate, the underground found me first."

"So that's what this is - the underground?" I guess. "You help magicians who're in trouble with the authorities?"

"Yes indeed," Kip replies. "It was lucky for me to get the job, and this way, I can keep my memories, and do a bit of good - even if I'm no great shakes with magic."

"Wait - so then who keeps up the wards and stuff?" I ask, suddenly alarmed that the protections around the house will fray and dissolve any minute.

"Oh - that's Emmy," Kip says with a broad smile. "Since she came here, my life's been much easier. Usually, I'd barter a few protective spells from anyone who came to stay, in exchange for their board, but when they leave, it's difficult to keep up 'til the next comes along. Emmy though - she came the year before last, and decided to stay on. She's out walking the wards right now, I think. It's difficult for her to sit still. And she gets a little-"

I wait for Kip to finish, but he doesn't. Instead, he presses his lips together for a moment, looking pensive. "Well," he says, "I could patch you up while we wait for her to come in. And you can have your supper."

The thought of food cheers me immediately, so I say "okay," with a level of enthusiasm that seems to please Kip. He rises and begins to clatter around the kitchen. He soon sets a large bowl in front of me filled with stew, and a hunk of seed bread still hot from the oven. Soon, I forget the pain in my neck, and focus fully on shoveling as much food as I can into my mouth as quickly as possible.

The stew is thick and chock full of chunks of beef and sweet, starchy vegetables. It seems to saturate every cell in my body as I eat, warming and plumping them with rich salty broth.

As I finish the bowl, I realize that I'm not eating with anything remotely approaching proper table manners, but when I look up at Kip, he still seems pleased.

"Do you like it?" he asks.

"This is the best food I've eaten in a whole month," I reply around a mouthful of stew and bread. Then, remembering the bland offerings of the Iris Academy cafeteria, I add "three months, actually."

Kip grins again. "Let's get you seconds," he says, and I nearly spill the dregs of my bowl in my haste to put it in his hands.

When I'm so full of bread and stew I worry that it will start to leak out of my ears, Kip sets another pot on the stove, then leaves the kitchen. He returns with a first aid kit and a few clay pots, all of which which he sets on the table beside me before going back to the stove. He ladles the contents of the pot into a mug which he sets before me - hot cocoa, from the smell. I blow on the top to cool it as Kip sits next to me and unsnaps the kit.

"Here we are," Kip says after rifling through the box for a few seconds. "Hold your hair up for me, please."

I wince and hiss in my breath as Kip smears something from one of the pots on my burn, but his pudgy fingers - clumsy as they are at spells - have a light and gentle touch when it comes to administering first aid.

"What is that?" I ask. Then, worried I sound too suspicious, I add "It smells nice." This isn't a lie- the unguent has a pleasant, herbal smell, and feels cool on my skin.

"One of my special remedies," Kip says. "I'm more of a kitchen witch than anything else. This sort of thing comes naturally to me - but I'm afraid my talents aren't much valued by the powers that be."

This doesn't seem very fair, particularly as Kip's concoction is working wonders on my burnt skin.

"Almost done, Kip says cheerfully, snipping a roll of gauze and taping it to my neck. "And... there. This'll keep you until Emmy gets back - or 'til your husband gets up."

When I turn to face Kip, mug in hand, I see that he's squinting at me curiously. I brace myself for the inevitable question.

"That's really your husband?"

"Yep," I say. "That's really my husband."

"Hmm," Kip says. "How did the two of you-"

"Long stor- _haaaaahh_ -" I start, but interrupt myself with a monstrous yawn.

"In that case, I think it can wait until morning," Kip says, standing and confiscating my mug.

"Thanks," I say. It's true that now, full of hot food and with the last of the adrenaline draining from my system, I feel as though I could sleep for a straight week.

Kip ushers me up the stairs, pressing two toothbrushes in cardboard containers and a sample tube of toothpaste into my hand. When we stop before the door to the bedroom, Kip turns to me.

"If you'd really like a separate room, you can have one," he says. "I only wanted to pay your husband in kind for what he'd said at the door." He gives me an embarrassed grin, and I can't help but smile back.

"Thanks, but I think I want to stay here," I say. "He - just fell asleep so fast, I'm a little worried. I want to make sure he's okay."

This is true, but it's not the whole truth. The truth is - and I can barely acknowledge it in my head, much less say it out loud - I'm scared. Scared of going into an empty, unknown room and shutting off the light. Scared that I won't know where I am when I wake up. Scared that, when I try to find him, Hieronymous will be gone, and I'll be completely alone again. But most of all, I'm scared that if I close my eyes, I'll open them and discover that I'm back in that white-on-white cell, that poison prison, and that they will never again let me out.

"All right," Kip says. "Give a shout if you need anything. One of us will hear."

"Okay. Thanks - uh, thank you. For everything."

Kip smiles, wishes me good night, and vanishes down the stairs.

I open the bedroom door as cautiously as possible, though the aged wood gives a mournful creak as I do. Hieronymous' light spell still illuminates the room, but the flickering light has faded - it'll go out soon if it isn't refreshed. Hieronymous himself is still asleep, lying in the same position as I'd found him earlier.

I tiptoe to the bathroom and go through the few steps involved in getting myself ready for bed. Once I'm finished, I cross to the other side of the bed, and consider my options. Lie on top of the dusty coverlet and get my prison pajamas dirty? They're bad enough after the trek through the woods, and slightly scorched at the back collar. I'd also probably get cold. Peel the covers back and risk waking Hieronymous? He seems to be sleeping deeply, so this strikes me as the better course of action. Slowly, I pull the coverlet and top sheet from the head of the bed and slide myself in, careful to jostle the bed as little as possible. Once I'm in place, I ease the covers back over myself, trying not to kick up a cloud of dust that could precipitate a coughing fit. Thus settled, I still myself and wait for exhaustion to overtake me.

Exhaustion doesn't oblige.

I lie still, staring at the ceiling in the ever-dimming glow of the light spell, yearning to shift, and terrified that if I do, Hieronymous will wake and kick me out of the bed - or worse, out of the room.

I've never slept in the same bed as anyone else before - well, not since I was a little kid and crawled into bed with my parents after having a nightmare. But sleeping in the same bed as an adult with another adult - this is all very new. Is there any position to take, I wonder, to make sure the other person stays comfortable? Some way to keep oneself from tossing around, to keep from waking them? I begin to realize just how much I usually move around in bed - switching sides, bunching up pillows-

 _Relax_ , I scold myself. _You're over-thinking this. Plenty of married people sleep in the same bed all the time._

 _Not_ magical _married people_ , another part of me responds. _That's what_ he _said anyway, magical married couples keep separate quarters._

 _Well there must be some magical couples who sleep in the same bed because they like it, because they think it's nice._ And it does strike me as a very nice thing to be able to do, after a hard, rotten day like the one I've just had, to lie in bed with someone you

_love?_

care about and just rest together.

That's not exactly what's happening here, of course. And the more interesting, more complicated stuff like putting one's arms around someone, or kissing them, or - well, all of it - seems as remote to me, here in this dimly lit room, as the miniature dragons on Socotra.

_And possibly just as nonexistent, right?_

_Shut up_ , I beg inwardly. _Stupid brain, just shut up and go to sleep._

I roll onto my left side, away from Hieronymous's prone form, stilling myself and holding my breath to see if the movement woke him up. It didn't - his own breath comes slow and even from the other side of the bed. I clench my eyes shut, trying to will myself into unconsciousness.

I'm not sure how long I lie there, trying to sleep, before Hieronymous' light spell finally blinks out of existence, and the room goes black.

At first, I try to take this in stride. _Oh, that's better. That'll make it easier to sleep._ But there's a tiny kernel of panic in my chest that begins to sprout, strange tendrils splitting its hard little husk, and stretching out shoots into my chest, my shoulders, my arms. They curl around each other, forming twisting knots in my lungs, and it begins to get difficult to breathe around them. My skin feels cold, my fingers bunch up the sheets.

 _You're not there, you're not in that room, that cell. You're in the safe house -_ safe _house, remember? Anyway, if you were there, they would have all the lights on - they never turned them off._

_(but it could be a trick they could be just biding their time and you never actually saw whether they turned off the lights did you they could have done it while you were sleeping)_

_No, they didn't, the lights were always on and anyway you're fine. You're not_ there _, you can open your eyes and see any time you want._

I lie there, eyes shut until I can't stand it any more and open them. It's just as black as it was with my eyes shut - the thick, heavy curtains that had been pulled over the windows of the bedroom don't let in even the slightest amount of light.

_(no windows in that cell remember if they turned off the lights there it would be just as black how do you know how do you know)_

Panic races down my arms into my fingertips, fast as tongues of flame, making my nails tingle with the sudden heat. I sit bolt upright in bed, clutching sheets to me, barely feeling them as the cloth slides through my fingers, flailing out to feel something - anything - to prove that I'm not back in that horrible little cell.

_you're not there you're not there you'renotthere_

My right hand shoots out to grasp more covers and hits Hieronymous' shoulder instead.

The sudden relief that floods me feels as though I've been doused in a pool of cool water, quenching the flames of panic. Gasping, and no longer caring whether he wakes up or not, I squeeze a fistful of Hieronymous' robes, feeling the shoulder underneath shift with his sleeping breath. Slowly, cell by cell, my muscles begin to relax, my shoulders fall from where they'd been hovering around my ears, and my fingers release their grip, the knuckles throbbing and sore from how tightly they'd been clenched.

With the fading of the panic comes the gradual realization that this is pretty much the opposite of what I'd intended - stillness and consideration for Hieronymous' sleeping form. But he still hasn't woken, which I consider pretty fortunate.

 _As long as I know he's here, I'll know I'm not in that cell_ , I decide. And so I edge toward the middle of the bed, as slowly and carefully as I can, until I'm only a few inches from where he's lying. Then I lower my head until my forehead is just touching his shoulder, the rest of me curled on my right side, carefully not touching the rest of him. His shoulder is warm and firm in the quiet dark, and I can feel him breathe against me. The residual tension deep in my muscles begins to relax, and I close my eyes.

 _It's okay. It's okay. It's okay_ , I think to myself, until I can't think anymore.


	20. Chapter 20

When I open my eyes, the room is light again - not the soft, flickering light of magic, but the cold gleam of the winter sun streaming through the cracks in the thick curtains.

It takes me a moment to take stock of where I am and what I'm doing there. The events of the prior day flick through my mind - the trial, the rescue, the safe house, Kip, trying to get to sleep last night-

And that's when I realize that my head is still pressed against Hieronymous's shoulder, and that I'm still curled a few inches from his side. I start up and sit in bed, hoping he's still asleep, and wouldn't even know I'd been there at all.

A glance at his face makes my stomach dip. He's definitely awake - his eyes are open and staring up at the ceiling, and he's shifted on the bed - his shoes are off, and he's now lying fully prone on his back, his palms facing the ceiling. He's so still that, with a jolt, I worry that he's died in the night - and then he blinks, and I let out a breath I hadn't even been aware I'd been holding.

"Hi," I say.

He doesn't answer.

"Uh. Good morning," I say instead.

His face tenses, and he licks his lips in one quick motion. "Is it?" he says.

"Morning?" I ask.

"Good," he replies.

"Oh. Um. Maybe not exactly good," I say.

He doesn't answer, or look away from whatever it is on the ceiling he's finding so interesting.

"But better than yesterday," I add, trying for cheerful but only managing shrill. He still doesn't answer. "For me, anyway," I say, more subdued.

Now his eyes do flick my way, and he stays staring at me for what feels like an age.

"What is that?" he asks.

"Um - what?"

"On your neck."

I lift my hand to the bandage, and the burn springs to life under my fingers, sending a throb of pain up my spine. I wince.

"Just a burn. From yesterday. Kip couldn't heal it so he patched me up. Um."

Hieronymous stares at me, unmoving, his face pale in the morning sun.

"Do you think you could maybe..." I trail off before I finish, gesturing weakly toward the bandage.

He stays prone for another moment, then turns his hands over, sliding them across the coverlet. Bracing himself, he sits up, moving slowly like someone old or arthritic. Once sitting, he reaches both hands out toward me, and before I realize what he's going to do, he turns my face around by the chin so that I'm facing away from him. His fingers brush the sides of my neck, then peel the tape from my skin, loosening the gauze and exposing the burn. He pauses once to lift a chunk of my burned hair and twists it between his fingers before letting go.

When he starts the incantation, I blink quickly, confused. Whenever anyone's cast a spell this close to me, I'd always been able to feel it - the gathering energy sucking something undefinable out of the air, Now I feel nothing - nothing at all. And when he finishes, and opens his hands to release the spell, there's a sudden relief, a startling absence of pain in the skin of my neck - but no rush, no tingle as the magic surges towards me. I take a quick breath in that's almost a gasp.

"I can't feel you," I whisper. "I can't feel you cast."

A sob comes welling up from my chest, and I clap both hands over my mouth to stop it from escaping. I make a strange choking sound instead as the implication of what's been done to me crashes down on my shoulders. It isn't a game of see-how-long-you-can-go-without-magic, not an irritant that I can distract away with exhaustion, or food, or panic. My magic - the thing that has defined my life since I was thirteen - has vanished from my life, leaving no trace that I'd ever had it in the first place.

"It's gone," I say, and now I can't hold the sobs back any more. They burst out of me, low choking cries that seem to rob me of air - my lungs empty and still my chest convulses with them. I manage one shuddery gasp, and say "What am I going to do?"

I can feel Hieronymous move away from me, hear the creak of the headboard as he leans back against it. "I don't know," he says. "I don't know."

He lets me cry it out, sitting with me on the bed, getting up once to fetch a fistful of toilet paper from the bathroom, and handing it to me so that I can scour my streaming eyes and nose. He sits back down, silent.

When my sobs finally fade to sniffles, I croak "I guess sitting around crying about it isn't going to solve anything."

"At least," Hieronymous says, "you can't say that you didn't try."

I give a huff of sob-laughter at this, then turn to face him. He's still leaning back against the headboard, but at least now he's looking at me instead of the ceiling or the wall. He gives me a faint smile, and I'm suddenly aware of my position - _in bed_ with _my husband_. I clear my throat to hide my nervousness and flail about in my head for something witty to say back. Nothing especially good comes to mind, so I decide to go for sincere instead.

"Thanks for rescuing me yesterday."

"No thanks necessary," he replies. "When you consider the vested interest I retain in your continued consciousness, it's quite clear I was acting out of self-preservation. Yves was correct about that, at least."

"Well he's a liar about everything else," I retort. "And he _did_ set me up. That book was in the school library."

"I certainly would not have sent you such a book," Hieronymous says, frowning. "How on earth did that escape the librarian's notice?"

"Print date was 1912," I say. "Must've been a recent edition."

Hieronymous sighs through his nose. "Sheer incompetence," he mutters. "I should have a few things to say to Petunia if-"

He cuts off, and I race to fill the silence. "Do you know how she is - Professor Potsdam? Is she going to be okay?"

"I'm afraid that I have not been entrusted with any current information regarding Petunia's condition," he says, with a twist of his mouth.

"But where is she? I she awake? Is she in the hospital? Does she know they think it was me who - who attacked her?"

Hieronymous shakes his head. "As I said, I have not-"

"I _know_ , but hasn't it been in, like, the newspapers or anything?"

Hieronymous blinks at me, his face blank. Finally he says "have you ever seen a magical newspaper?"

I stop, taken aback. "Well, no," I admit, but I'd never really thought about it much. Back at my old, non-magical high school, there had been a few of the nerdier students who made a point of reading newspapers during lunch, but the rest of us had generally ignored them, considering them pretentious - none of us had ever read much beyond the comics and the advice columns over breakfast. When I hadn't seen any newspaper reading going on at Iris Academy, I hadn't even given it a second thought - although now I realize that Ellen is just the sort of student who might make a point of reading a magical newspaper, if one existed. "I guess I just figured students weren't allowed newspapers?" I say, taking a wild guess.

"Magicians," he replies, "have never relied upon anything so commonplace as a daily press."

"Why?" I ask. "I mean, you have books-"

"Yes, but books are a rather different medium. Newspapers are ephemeral, and rather unprofitable, particularly when their audience happens to have a faster means of communication than the printed word."

"So… like TV?" I ask.

"A network of communication spells that function similarly to a twenty-four hour broadcast, and which a witch or wizard may tap into at any time."

"So then students-"

"Are _not_ taught the requisite spell until they reach full citizenship," Hieronymous replies.

"Oh," I say, suddenly a bit miffed that I don't have access to any magical news sources - even if I hadn't thought to take advantage of anything of the sort until just now. It's just another way for the authorities to hide the truth from students, to force them to follow the rules. But then I brighten.

"So what do you hear about Professor Potsdam? Is she-"

Hieronymous raises his hands, palms facing forward. "There has been no discussion of the events that have taken place at Iris Academy since they occurred."

"That doesn't seem-" I start.

"All I know," Hieronymous interrupts, "is that Yves has been named headmaster of Iris Academy on an emergency basis, and is continuing in that capacity."

" _What_?" I spit. "He _can't_ be - you don't know what it's been like, he's the worst! He's been expelling wildseed students left and right for, like, the simplest stuff! The girl with the mp3 player, and-"

"I can assure you," Hieronymous says, cutting me off mid-rant, "that I was given absolutely no say in the matter."

"I _know_ ," I sigh, "but-"

"What does concern me," he continues, "is why Yves chose to set you up so elaborately."

"Oh," I say, shifting uncomfortably. "Well, you know how you told me not to antagonize Professor Terrec? I kind of... did that. I called him out during school election speeches, and then you know those squids he was talking about? That was me, too. I mean, not _directly_ me, but-" I cut off, wondering how on earth I can explain my outsourced prank in a way that makes sense.

Hieronymous lifts one hand to the bridge of his nose and kneads it in his fingers. For a moment I'm nervous but then I realize that his shoulders have started to shake with silent laughter.

"Do you know," he says, "I considered writing you and telling you to do everything you could to disrupt Yves' ability to teach, because I was convinced that no matter what I told you to do, you'd haul off and do exactly the opposite?"

I give him a rueful little smile. "I guess that's fair. But you should have seen his face." I almost start laughing myself, but I don't, remembering what came after the prank. "He did this weird spell on me after," I start, speaking slowly, wondering how I'm going to explain it. "It was an empathy spell base, but it got... bigger. And weirder. Like, _deeper_. And it was like he was in my brain, searching around my thoughts, and when I thought of you - I couldn't _help_ it - it was like he'd hit the jackpot. Like he went through all my memories just looking for juicy stuff about you. I think that's how he knew to ask about all that stuff yesterday - the manus I mean. And the marriage."

Hieronymous doesn't say anything for a long time, and I find myself struggling not to hold my breath while waiting for his reaction.

"Eliza," he finally says, sounding as though he's working very hard to keep his voice under control, "do you have any idea how illegal that spell is?"

"Um, _no_ ," I blurt, temper flaring, "because I have no idea what that spell even _is_ , and even if I did, I have no idea what's illegal and what isn't because none of you will tell me!"

Hieronymous ignores my outburst. "And why did you not go to Petunia about it immediately?"

"Because," I wail, "she told me that she didn't have authority over Professor Terrec, because he's sent by the council!"

"That woman," Hieronymous mutters. "If I never find out how that brain of hers functions it will be too soon."

"But he's had it in for me since the first day of class, ever since he found out my title-" I pause, considering this. "Meaning ever since he found out I was married to you," I say, more quietly. "Do you know him?"

"Prior to your - difficulties - I'd never met the man," Hieronymous says, "but I know him by reputation. He was the head prosecutor for the United States' council several years ago, then left and lived in England for a time. He'd only returned to this country at about the time I'd left it." He frowns, seeming to ponder something for a moment, then shakes his head.

There's something odd about Hieronymous's reaction to my question, but I can't quite determine what it is. I consider pressing him, but instinctively shrink from the prospect. Instead, I decide to change the subject. "You don't think he'll be able to track us here, do you?"

Hieronymous blinks, then seems to come to life again. He shakes his head no, slowly at first, and then firmly.

"Is that why you were rocketing us all over the place yesterday?"

"Partially," he responds. "Teleportation can be a tricky business. The difficulty involved and energy required to effect a successful teleportation increases exponentially with distance. I flatter myself that I am more skilled at it than most, but even I could not have brought both of us here in one trip. Several small jaunts, however, allowed us to not only reach our destination, but to establish a non-linear path."

"So, like a fox doubling back on its trail?" I ask.

His mouth twists. "I can't say that I care for the analogy, but in essence you are correct. I believe that I've tied a Gordion knot thick enough that it cannot be sliced through. As for the safehouse, the warding is extremely impressive."

"Is it like the dungeons?" I ask, "during exams?"

"In essence. Wards prevent teleportation across specified physical boundaries. It is possible to get around them by passing through the spiral gate into the Otherworld, and back out again within the bounds of a ward, but that is extremely difficult to do if you cannot sense that a location - this house, for example - is even there in the first place. As for me - well. I prefer not to enter the Otherworld for any reason."

We're silent for a moment.

"At any rate, as I said, the wards are quite impressive. It would be extremely difficult to tell that this house was even here unless one knew about the location in advance."

I'm relieved by this statement - that must mean we really are safe here. "Kip said it was a woman named Emmy who does the wards," I say. "She must be some magician."

Hieronymous gives a noncommittal shrug.

I fiddle with the bedsheets, twisting the fabric between my fingers. "How did you know about this place, anyway?" I ask. "I've never even heard of safehouses." When he doesn't answer, I add "I guess they wouldn't teach us about safehouses, would they?"

"I imagine that to be an accurate assumption," Hieronymous says drily.

"How long are we going to stay here?" I ask. "I mean, not that I mind it here, Kip is really nice and I guess he needs some help around the place, but I mean, as far as long-term options go..." I trail off, thinking this over. Am I going to wind up like Kip, without magic, hiding from those who would kick me out of my own life at a moment's notice? Or would it be worse?

"Hieronymous," I say, slowly and carefully. "You're not going to just leave me here til January, right? You won't just keep me here until you can divorce me, wipe my memories and send me back home - will you?"

He doesn't answer, and a cold, slick fear settles in my stomach. "You _can't_ ," I say, my voice not going any louder than a whisper. "You can't send me back, not _now_ , not after everything-"

"If you have any better ideas," he says, voice low, "I should be happy to entertain them."

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out, so I just stare at my husband in utter horror. His mouth is a tight line, and he won't meet my eyes.

"What kind of a life would I be leaving you to?" he finally asks. "Skulking around the periphery of society, always looking over your shoulder, never certain of your place?" He lets out a long breath through his nose. "Go back. You have a family. You have a life. You won't miss it. You won't even remember."

"What about you?" I ask, twisting the sheets between my fingers again. "You're the one who kidnapped me. They're not going to just forget about you once I'm out of the picture."

He gives an impatient shrug. "I ought to be the least of your worries."

"Well you're not," I snap, my fear swallowed up by my frustration. "You're my _husband_ and I'm not going to just go off and forget about you. You didn't forget about me."

He doesn't move, doesn't speak, doesn't look me in the eye.

"Magic is who I am," I say, trying not to plead and not quite managing it. "I was born to be a witch. You can't take that away from me - please."

He closes his eyes. "Eliza, it's gone. There isn't anything I can do for you but give you back the rest of your life. Do me the favor of taking it."

"So," I say, and it comes out in a half laugh, breathy and weak with disbelief. "Would you miss me?"

"Eliza, that is _not_ the point-"

"I don't care what's the point!" I say, throwing off the sheet and rising on my knees. My hands dart out and, before I can stop them, grip Hieronymous' shoulders. "Look me in the eye and tell me you won't miss me." I have to clench my jaw then, to keep it from wobbling.

He looks up at me then, eyes hard, the line between his brows pronounced."And then - what?"

"I don't know," I say. "Then I'll think about it."

He looks away again, then, very slowly, lifts one hand to his shoulder, covering one of mine. His fingers are cold, long, and white as bone, and he eases them between my own, coming to rest in the spaces between, brushing my skin lightly.

And then he grips, lifting my hand from his shoulder, almost tossing it to the side. He wrenches out from under my other hand, and thus freed from my clutches, stands.

"There is," he says, " _nothing_ to think about."

I don't answer. There isn't anything left for me to say. I remain kneeling on the bed, half turned toward him, feeling as though I'm on an unmoored raft set in the middle of a heaving sea.

"Unless you require the facilities, I'm going to take a bath." He pauses, waiting for an answer.

"Yeah." I say, "fine." He vanishes into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.


	21. Chapter 21

I sit back down on the bed, the sheets twisted around me, and listen to the water in the bathroom begin to run. I feel a dull, sick ache in my stomach.

_Well it's two months, right? Two whole months and who knows, maybe you can change his mind._

_Change it to what?_ another part of me asks. The challenge strikes me as being Sisyphean - no matter what tactic I try, the rock is going to roll back down the hill before I manage to get it to the top.

 _Still, you have two months._ But this doesn't seem like a very long time at all. How am I supposed to accomplish anything in just two months - clearing my name, changing Hieronymous' mind, curing Professor Potsdam, rescuing Ahmed-

My stomach dips at the thought. I forgot Ahmed. He's stuck in the Otherworld now, with only that horrible demon for company. _Maybe he's already dead_ , I think. _Maybe Damien's already sacrificed him - or maybe the goblins have-_

I shake my head briskly, trying to loosen the thought and toss it away. There isn't anything I can do for Ahmed now. I just have to find someone who can go rescue him for me. I already know it won't be Hieronymous - going to the Otherworld is not exactly on his top ten list of things he loves to do. Maybe this Emmy person can take me, if she's half the magician she seems to be.

 _Well that's a start_ , I think, although even I have to admit to myself that going to the Otherworld to fight a demon for my best friend isn't exactly the sort of thing you ask someone to do on your first acquaintance.

_You'll just have to work up to it, that's all. So what next?_

My stomach answers for me by giving a low growl. Despite all the stew I put away last night, I'm suddenly starving again. I'm a little nervous about wandering around the house - will I be in anyone's way? But the memory of how nice to me Kip had been, and another rumble from my stomach decide for me - I get out of bed and make my way downstairs.

As soon as I reach the foyer I can hear the sounds of clattering again - Kip in the kitchen, my stomach hopes. And then halfway there, I pause. Kip's voice is audible, saying something indistinct, and then there's another, softer voice saying something in answer. Suddenly self-conscious, I remember that I haven't brushed my hair since getting out of bed.

 _Well, it_ _'s going to be a complete mess either way_ , I decide, screw up my courage, and walk to the kitchen.

Right before I walk through the doorway, a wall of scent hits me - not food, but right now, it's just about the best smell in the entire world - _coffee_. I duck inside and see Kip heating a pan on the stove. At my step, he turns with his wide grin. "Well," he says, "good morning." Then his eyes go over my shoulder. "Emmy, this is one of our guests."

I turn to see a woman sitting at the table, in the same seat I'd taken for supper last night. Well - at first glance she looks like a woman, but I realize looking at her that she can't be more than a year or two older than me. She has pale skin and bright red hair, a striking contrast, but one that makes her face look a bit washed out. It doesn't help that she's swathed entirely in black - a long skirt, boots, a sweater, and what looks like at least three scarves - which makes her face look paper white against the fabric. She's pushed both thumbs through the wide knit sleeves of her thick sweater, and has both hands wrapped around a mug, which is paused halfway to her mouth. And there's something strange about her eyes - they look too big for her face, and somehow too blank. Before I can figure out what it is, she gives me a quick, nervous smile, and I remember my manners. "Hi," I say, "I'm Eliza."

Emmy just stares at me, her cup still poised in front of her. I begin to grow uncomfortable at the silence, but then Kip speaks up behind me.

"Emmy can be a little shy with strangers," he says, as though Emmy were a little kid hiding behind his legs rather than a girl - woman - older than me.

I smile back at her. "That's okay," I say, and then wonder what to do next.

Fortunately, Kip rescues me. "Will you fetch some more mugs, Eliza? They're just in that cupboard, on the left."

I run over, grateful to have been sent on an errand, and have to stand on tiptoe to pull two mismatched mugs from the shelf. Kip has taken the pan off the stove, and he takes the mugs one at a time, and pours the heated coffee through a strainer into each. He hands me one, and I can barely wait until it cools before I start sipping. After a month with no coffee, it tastes like some divine elixir, and I put away half the cup in a few seconds.

"That stuff is _gross_. It smells like - like _stank_ water," blurts Emmy suddenly, and she gives a shrill little giggle into her own mug.

"Now Emmy, that isn't polite," Kip chides. "Just because you don't care for coffee doesn't mean you need to ruin everyone else's appetite."

"With your cooking, she couldn't ruin my appetite if she tried," I say, aware that I sound sycophantic but too eager to stay on Kip's good side to care. It works - he grins at me again and sips at his own mug with satisfaction.

"Hey, Emmy," I continue, "did you know that there's a kind of coffee made from beans they collect from civit cat poop?"

Kip seems to speak to Emmy as though she were a child and I know of no surer way to get a kid to like you - absent a fistful of candy - than to make poop jokes.

Again, my tactic works. Emmy bursts into a flurry of giggles, laughing so hard that she spills hot cocoa from her mug onto the wooden table's surface. Kip frowns at me in mock-disappointment. "You two are both disgusting," he says. Emmy is still giggling helplessly, and I begin to wonder whether she's all there. And if she isn't, how could she have generated wards around the house so powerful that even Hieronymous commented on their strength? _Maybe she's some kind of magical savant_ , I reason, although there's something about her that makes me wonder.

Kip interrupts my train of thought. "Eliza, are those the same clothes you came in yesterday?"

"Uh," I start, looking down at my white prison pajamas. "Yeah. I haven't got anything else."

"Maybe Emmy can lend you some," Kip says, giving Emmy a meaningful look. "She has too many clothes as it is." I can believe it, as it looks as though Emmy's currently wearing three outfits at the same time.

"You only want us out of your kitchen," says Emmy in a sing-song voice.

"I'm making breakfast," Kip replies, "and I can make it faster without you two underfoot."

"Pancakes!" Emmy shouts.

"I think you've had enough sugar for one morning," says Kip. "I'm making eggs, and you're going to eat them."

"I'll eat them if you put them in pancakes," Emmy replies.

"Don't be difficult," Kip says. "Now go on upstairs."

Emmy leaps up from her seat and grabs my hand. "You can see my room," she says. "Kip's not allowed in but _you_ can see it." She sticks her tongue out at Kip's back, and drags me back toward the staircase leading to the second floor.

We ascend and head straight to the back hallway where Emmy drags me up another, narrower staircase, then leads me to a small door that she has to duck under to get through.

Emmy's room is part of the attic, under one of the dramatic gables. Once through the door, the room opens into a wide expanse with a high, pointed ceiling and a row of little windows set near the floor. The space is filled with a magpie's nest of raggedy, rickety, or just plain broken down treasures. There's a full length mirror with an ornate and tarnished brass frame and a canopy bed with one of the poles broken, so that the canopy has to be pinned to the wall by one of its corners. There are multiple dressers with missing drawers, and a vanity table, all of them strewn with knickknacks, shiny rocks, makeup and hair brushes. There's also a huge wardrobe shoved into a corner, with one of its doors coming off the hinge. Every conceivable surface is draped with clothing, seemingly all of it black and drapey, identical to what Emmy is currently wearing.

Emmy leads me to the center of a relatively clear patch of floor, then steps back and considers me, serious as a fashion designer looking over her model.

"It's good that you came to us today," she intones loftily. "Because you need a lot of work."

"Gee, thanks," I deadpan, and Emmy sticks her tongue out at me.

"Take those off," she orders, waving her hand vaguely at my prison pajamas. I dutifully strip down to the white underwear and entirely unsupportive bra that came with the uniform. "Those too," Emmy says, and when I hesitate, she bursts "it's _okay_ , we're both _girls_." Then she squints at me. "You are a girl, right? Kip says it's impolite to make assumptions but sometimes I forget."

"That's good advice," I admit, "but it's okay. I'm a girl. Just... one that's not used to stripping in front of strangers before breakfast."

Emmy rolls her eyes at me, but digs into one of the piles of clothing on her bed. She unearths a fake kimono that's too shiny to be anything but rayon and tosses it at me. "You can wear that."

"Thanks," I say, putting it on, then doing the wriggling dance of taking off my underwear without taking off the outer robe, a move perfected by shy middle school girls in gym locker rooms across America.

I have my back turned to Emmy, and she suddenly asks "what did you do to your hair?"

"Burned it off," I say, and she giggles as though I've just admitted to some embarrassing fashion _faux pas_.

"Why didn't you fix it?" she asks.

"Well I can't really see the back of my head," I start, and Emmy giggles harder.

" _No-o_ , with a _spell_ ," she says.

"Oh. I can't do spells any more," I say, the words heavy and smooth as river pebbles in my mouth.

Emmy's eyes widen. "Did you get expelled?"

After a moment's pause to consider the question, I say "yeah. I guess I did."

Emmy nods, then steps over my pile of prison clothes to pat me on the arm. "It's okay," she says. "We can still be friends."

"Oh," I say, and give Emmy a tentative smile. "Thanks?"

Emmy grins, then skips across the room and starts digging into a pile of clothes that spill out of one of the lopsided dresser drawers. She starts flinging things at me - a black sweater, a t-shirt, a pair of tights, some underwear. As I pick them up, I see that they all have the store tags still on them.

"Where do you get all these clothes?" I ask, examining the sweater tag.

"I steal them from the outlet mall down the highway," Emmy says, still half buried in the stack. She tosses a long black skirt over her shoulder in my direction.

"Uh-" I say, and she straightens and turns.

"Well how else am I supposed to get clothes if I don't have any money?" she asks, looking at me as though this were the most obvious answer in the world.

I look at the sweater in my hands, then shrug, and tear off the tag. I'm already a fugitive after all - no reason to be squeamish about wearing a few shoplifted clothes. I dress in the items Emmy has thrown me, but quickly run into a snag. The sweater and skirt probably fit Emmy's long frame, but both are laughably long on me. Emmy snickers as I roll back the sleeves of the sweater and try hiking up the hem of the skirt so that it won't drag on the floor.

"You look like a little kid playing dress-up," Emmy says. "Here, I can fit them."

"Really?" I ask. I haven't seen anyone fit clothes except for Professor Potsdam; the spell she'd used had seemed more complicated than any of those I've learned in school so far.

"Sure!" Emmy says, and launches into the spell.

Emmy's casting is unlike anything I've ever seen. She doesn't cast with her hands, but seemingly with her whole body, a set of lurching movements that could be dance steps, but are a little too ungainly. Actually, she resembles nothing so much as a large black bird struggling to take off from the ground. And yet, the spell is effective - once she completes it, I feel the sweater tightening around me, and the skirt rising so that instead of flopping past my toes, it brushes my ankles. The overall effect is nearly as good as Professor Potsdam's magical tailoring.

"Wow," I say. "Where'd you learn to do that?"

Emmy shrugs. "Around."

I consider this. Whatever "around" is, Emmy certainly didn't learn her technique from Kip.

"Did you learn it in school?" I ask. Emmy shrugs again, not answering. She seems engrossed in picking at a thread from the hole in her sweater sleeve.

"Where'd you go to school?" I ask. "Was it in California, like Kip? Did you get expelled too?"

" _I didn't go to school and anyway it sucked_!" Emmy yells suddenly and with surprising vehemence. I'm struck silent, judging it best not to point out the inconsistency in Emmy's statement. And at that moment, I realize what's wrong with Emmy's eyes - they have no irises. Her eyes are all white with huge black pupils, and nothing in between. The effect, along with her outburst, is incredibly creepy, and I feel my skin pucker into gooseflesh under the warm wool of the sweater.

Emmy cuts her eyes away from mine, and goes back to picking at her sweater. After a long silence, she says "sorry," in a very soft voice. Then, suddenly, she looks up at me and grins. "Want me to cut your hair?"

I have to think about whether I want Emmy to come near my head with a pair of scissors, but decide that refusing would probably just make her angrier. "Sure," I say.

"Okay!" she says happily, then shoves a pile of clothes off of a chair and steers me into it. "I cut my own hair," she says, "and I shave Kip's head, too. I'm really good at it."

"How do you color it like that?" I ask. "Magic?"

She shakes her head. "Manic Panic. But spells keep the color from fading out too much. I tried coloring it with magic one time but it's real easy to mess up. I fried my hair worse than you did." Emmy has unearthed a pair of shears from the mess on her vanity table and has started clacking away at the back of my head, now as cheerful as she had been before her outburst. I keep as still as I can under her shears until she says "there!" and lets me stand. She bats at the back of my sweater and steers me to the brass-framed mirror.

"H-uh," I say, when I see my reflection, "that's actually... really nice." Emmy has removed the damaged portion of my hair in the back, and cut the rest of it into a sort of bob, short at the nape of my neck but longer in the front, just past my chin. It's smart-looking, particularly for a home job, and makes me look - well, a little grown up.

"I like it!" I pronounce, and Emmy claps her hands in childish glee.

We make our way back down to the kitchen to find Kip stirring a pan of scrambled eggs. He looks up and sighs when he sees us. "You two look like Heckle and Jeckle," he says. "Emmy, is there a single piece of clothing in your possession that isn't black?"

"Nope!" says Emmy. "Did you make pancakes?"

"No," Kip says. "Eat your eggs. You need the protein."

The two of them bicker good-naturedly as Kip dishes out breakfast, and - to my intense gratitude - pours me a fresh cup of coffee to replace the one I'd abandoned on the way to Emmy's room. The eggs are plain but hot and immensely satisfying piled on a piece of buttery rye toast.

I'm halfway through my breakfast when I hear an "Eliza?" from the front of the house. It's Hieronymous - who, I realize, I hadn't told that I'd be going downstairs. I feel a quick twinge of guilt, and swallow my mouthful of eggs. "Scuze me," I say to Emmy and Kip. "I'll be right back." I dash from my chair out of the kitchen and toward the front foyer.

Hieronymous is there, looking at the front door as though considering whether to go out through it. "Hey," I say, and he starts and turns towards me.

"Ah," he says. "There you are."

I glance at the door, then back to Hieronymous. "Were you, like, worried about me?"

He frowns. "I was merely concerned that you might have been foolish enough to attempt to leave the premises without informing me first." He cocks his head at me, one eyebrow raised. "I wasn't aware that there was to be a funeral."

"Well you certainly dressed for it," I snap. He's also in head to toe black, a sweater over a collared shirt and pair of trousers, all of which seem to be better fitted and in better shape than yesterday's robes. Actually, I've never seen him dressed so casually before, and I find it an interesting change.

"Sorry," I say, suddenly abashed for snapping at him. "I guess I'm feeling a little combative this morning."

Hieronymous crosses his arms in front of him, and gives me a thoughtful look. "It was not my intention to raise your hackles this morning, Eliza," he says. "I understand that you have had a trying time of it in the past few weeks-"

"Try months," I interrupt, but he ignores me.

"-and are consequently under a great deal of strain," he finishes. "But I ask you to accept that when it comes to determining your future, I am far more acquainted with the risks of staying within this world than you are."

"Then can't you tell me what they are and let me make a decision about it?" I ask, my voice more plaintive than I'd like it to sound. "It's my life, Hieronymous. My entire life. And you're acting like the decision's been made for me already."

"If not for the fact of our marriage, I believe it would have been decided for you already," Hieronymous says, quietly.

"Yeah, I know," I admit. "Same if you hadn't been there to rescue me. Even if it was self-interest, it was pretty... gallant, I guess."

Hieronymous smirks at this. "High praise indeed."

"So can I propose something?" I ask, and Hieronymous raises his eyebrows, waiting for me to continue. "A truce. Just for now."

"And what would that entail?" he asks.

"We drop the subject, go into the kitchen, and have some breakfast without any more fighting, and maybe we pick up this conversation later. Does that sound reasonable?"

Hieronymous gives me a measured look, and finally says "if you like."

I sigh, relieved. "Great. Kitchen's this way." I lead the way into the back of the house. "So," I say when we enter the room, "this is Kip, and this is Emmy - she's the one I told you about, who does the wards? She's the one who lent me the clothes, and she cut my hair - look!" I swish it around in what I hope is a fetching sort of way. "Doesn't it look-"

I cut off when I realize Hieronymous isn't behind me any more, and turn around. Hieronymous has stopped in the doorframe, eyes widened, his mouth half open as if in shock.

"Hey," I say, "are you okay?"

He doesn't answer, because that's when Emmy begins to scream.


	22. Chapter 22

Emmy's screams are high, loud and piercing, like a factory whistle. Her iris-less eyes are wide, her mouth wider, looking like a black circle in the middle of her paper-white face. I'm frozen to my spot, staring at her as she runs out of breath, heaves in another, and screams again.

Of the three of us, Kip recovers from his shock first. He stands from his chair and lurches towards Emmy, putting his hands on her shoulders. "Emmy - Emmy - honey, it's all right," he says, patting her shoulders. It doesn't help much. Emmy continues to scream until her voice goes ragged, despite all of Kip's clucking and soothing. When she finally runs out of steam, she bursts into tears and buries her head in Kip's shoulder, moaning something that sounds like "don't let him - don't let him."

Hieronymous and I haven't moved. When I glance his way, he's still in the door frame, but now his mouth is set in a thin line. I raise my eyebrows at him, but he seems determined to ignore me.

"I'm so sorry," Kip is saying as he rubs Emmy's shoulders. "I haven't seen her do this for ages. She gets... triggered, sometimes, I think is the word. She had a traumatic expulsion from her old school, and-"

"Yes," Hieronymous says, his voice sounding both clipped and strained. "I know. I expelled her."

None of us says anything for a very long time.

Then Kip wrests himself from Emmy's grip and raises himself to his full height. Funny, with all his friendly demeanor and homey courtesy, I'd forgotten what an enormous man Kip actually is. Even if Hieronymous can best him in magic, Kip looks as though he can throw a serious punch - and that he's about to do just that.

"Are you telling me," Kip says in a quiet voice that doesn't fool me for a moment, "that you are the bastard who did this to her?"

Hieronymous stares at Emmy for what feels like a full minute. "No," he finally says. "I'm merely stating that I performed the necessary spells to effect her expulsion. As for who did what to Miss King in the time intervening, I haven't the slightest idea."

Kip glowers and takes a step forward. "Well," he says, his voice getting louder with each word, "whatever it was you did, it certainly didn't work. Emmy has memories from school - not all of them, but several, enough to recognize you, anyway. And she _can_ cast. So do you mind telling me whether you were so incompetent that you couldn't complete the spells in the first place? Or were you just too lazy to fix them after you screwed them up?"

Hieronymous' face goes a rather nasty shade of brick, and he himself steps forward, his eyes narrowed.

I decide that whatever this confrontation might be, it's gone quite far enough. I dart between the two men, blocking Hieronymous from Kip's reach. "Eliza," I hear Hieronymous say, a warning tone in his voice, but I ignore him.

"O _kayyy_ ," I say. "This has been really interesting but I need to talk to my husband privately right now. And it looks like Emmy could maybe use some help. So why don't we just leave you two for a few minutes, and we can finish this conversation when everyone's calmed down?" I half turn, put my hands on Hieronymous' chest, and shove him out of the doorway. To my astonishment - and relief - he lets me do it. We enter the back hall and duck into a small side room. It has boarded up windows and a few pieces of furniture covered in sheets against the dust. Once we're in, Heironymous sinks onto a sofa without bothering to lift the sheet, full-fathom-fiveing into the cushion in a way that indicates that the springs are entirely shot. He doesn't seem to notice.

In fact, he doesn't seem to notice anything about his surroundings, which seems to include me. "Hieronymous?" I say, but he doesn't respond, or look my way. "Hie _ron_ ymous," I repeat, but he still doesn't look up. He's looking at his hands, which he's holding in front of his face, contorting his fingers in an extremely complicated and painful looking series of positions, muttering to himself all the while. I watch, trying to follow what's clearly a spell - it's difficult when I can't feel the magic forming as the spell is being cast - but I gradually note that it's a white spell, and it's a biggie. When he cups his hands in front of him, I back away in alarm.

"Don't point that thing at me!" I shout, and that's when he finally looks at me, cutting his eyes up without moving his head. He looks annoyed.

"I am not casting," he snaps, then looks away. "I can't have got it wrong," he mutters. He begins the spell again, jabbing his fingers into empty space with such violence that I can hear his knuckles crack in the stillness of the room.

I watch him in silence until he cups his hands again, then say "so is that the spell that takes away your magic or your memory?"

Hieronymous slams his hands into the couch cushion. "Be _quiet_ ," he hisses, then starts the spell again.

"So you cast those spells on Emmy?" I say.

He drops all attempts at casting, and folds his arms in front of his chest, glaring at me. "Her name," he snaps, "is Musette. Or was," he corrects himself. "If she doesn't remember her own name-" he begins, but I interrupt him before he can start casting again.

"She remembers _you_ ," I say. "And Kip's right, she _can_ do magic. I just saw her cast. So either you messed up the spells or-"

"I told you to _be quiet_ ," Hieronymous says, standing and stepping quickly towards me.

"Or what?" I snap back out of instinct. I'm barely paying him any attention - my brain is spinning with the possibility of what I was saying. _Either he messed up the spells, or-_

"Eliza," Hieronymous says, his voice lowered to a dangerous hush, "I should like to remind you that both of us are in an extremely untenable position - one which, I might add, is the fault of your obdurate refusal to do as I have told you-"

"My _fault_?" I say, his words snapping me back to the conversation. " _My_ fault?" I repeat. "Did you miss the part where I was set up?"

"If you hadn't antagonized Yves-"

"He was after me from my first day at school!" I shout. "My _antagonism_ had nothing to do with it! He was after me since he found out my married name - so I have to wonder," I continue, with a bitter little laugh, "whether I'd even be here in the first place if you hadn't messed up that spell with the manus." I have a vague thought that what I'm saying isn't exactly fair - Professor Potsdam had something to do with the manus getting a hold over Hieronymous in order to precipitate our marriage - but I'm too angry to admit it.

My statement has the intended effect. Hieronymous hisses in his breath and knits his eyebrows at me, the line between his eyes a black slash in his pale face. "I will remind you that the only reason you are here now instead of expelled without your memory is due to our marriage," he says.

"Yeah, and if we hadn't been married, Professor Terrec would have treated me exactly like you treated Emmy!" I say. "So what did she do? Did she have an iPod? A camera? Did she _think_ about science one time?"

Hieronymous narrows his eyes at me. "I caught her in Professor Potsdam's private library," he says curtly.

For a moment, I don't know what to say other than _Professor Potsdam has a private library_? All I manage is a sulky "so?"

"So," Hieronymous says, "she was attempting to delve into magical knowledge that it was not her place to know. I had no choice."

"And Professor Potsdam?" I ask.

"Was not present, as she was away from school at the time," Hieronymous says, tilting his chin up in an indignant way. "Otherwise it would have been Petunia who performed the necessary spells rather than me. However, once I informed Petunia of the particulars of Miss King's transgression, she gave me her full agreement with my actions. She would have done precisely the same thing in my place."

I consider this. It's true that getting caught in the headmistress's private library sounds like a major offense, even to me. "So what was she doing there?"

Hieronymous shrugs. "She spun me some story about her mother being ill, and unable to be cured by anything save a combination of magic and medicine-"

"Her _mother_ was sick?" I shout, outraged.

"It was quite clear to me that she had fabricated the story," he says. No non-magical human has been stricken by a magical ailment in at least three hundred-"

"And you didn't even check?" I say. "You just expelled her without even finding out if she was lying or not?"

"I am not a doctor, Eliza," he says, "I am an instructor charged with ensuring that students do not misuse the power granted to them by the accident of their birth. She misused it, and our rules required that she pay the price."

I make a disgusted sound in the back of my throat. "You know who you sound like, right?"

"I'm sure I-"

"You _sound_ like Professor Terrec, and if you really think that, you should have just left me with him!" I say, my voice rising to a shout. "Because _I_ broke the rules! I didn't attack Professor Potsdam, but I _did_ sabotage that exam. And like you said, the only reason I haven't gotten my brain wiped is because I'm married to you. So all I get out of that is, the rules are good enough for me to follow, and for Emmy, but you'll make exceptions for yourself!"

"The rules are different for students and citizens," Hieronymous says, his voice quiet, menacing.

"Oh, so teleporting a defendant out of a courtroom is perfectly legal," I say. "If you're somehow so great that you can police everyone else but give yourself a free pass? Do me a favor and turn us both in. Because two months doesn't make any difference to me if the result's going to be the same."

I stalk out of the room, slamming the door behind me without bothering to see if Hieronymous has tried to follow me out.

I make my way back to the kitchen where I find Emmy and Kip still there. Emmy's sitting at the table, still sniffling, and eating her way through a stack of pancakes drenched in syrup.

"That has to be the world's fastest batch of pancakes," I say, not able to bring myself to go further than the doorframe. I smile tentatively, and Kip and Emmy look up. Emmy sniffles, and swipes her sleeve across her nose. Kip doesn't say anything, and doesn't smile at my feeble attempt at friendliness.

"So, um." I say. "Are you going to kick us out?"

Kip doesn't answer me right away. The only sound is Emmy's fork against her plate as she tries to scrape up a pool of syrup.

Finally Kip says "much as I'd like to, I can't. He's claimed sanctuary and I've accepted it. Once that's happened, I can't throw him - or you - out."

I blink at Kip, who shrugs. "Even we have rules. This one goes back to - I can't say how far, actually. It's hospitality at its most basic, and even that has a form of magic." Kip pats Emmy on the shoulder, which slows her munching not at all. "But," he says, "that doesn't mean I have to play nice. He eats _nothing_ out of my kitchen. That's one. And two, he doesn't come into any room if Emmy is in it."

I pause, one hand on the doorframe. "And me?"

Kip frowns at me, but says "you're on probation. Lucky for you, Emmy likes you."

Emmy looks up and says, mouth full of pancake, "Eliza let me cut her hair."

"She did a good job," I say, trying to make my mouth form a smile. Emmy's sopping up the last of her syrup with a triangle of pancake. Emmy's childish demeanor, her inability to focus on anything for a few minutes, her shoplifting, her strange eyes - was all that the result of one messed up memory spell? My smile feels like a grimace.

"Okay," Kip says, picking up Emmy's empty plate. "Miss pancake. Time for you to get to work."

Emmy wipes her mouth on her sleeve, which I notice is now extremely sticky. "Okay," she says.

"Oh, um," I say, "can't I help? With the dishes, I mean."

"You," Kip says, "can get out of my kitchen and take this one with you."

"I hafta do the wards," Emmy says. "Every twelve hours keeps them at the max. Want to come?"

"Yeah," I say quickly. It's probably freezing out, but suddenly the idea of getting out of the house sounds like the best idea in the world. We cross into a mudroom that opens from the kitchen. Emmy throws a pair of olive green galoshes in my direction, and a huge jacket that comes down to my knees. I bundle myself into them as best I can - the boots are too big for my feet - and tromp out the door into the side yard of the house.

It's cold, of course, with a gray, even cloud cover. The trees, leaf-less, stand stark against the sky as though clawing at it. Emmy, cheerful from her sugar high, walks briskly and I rush after her as quickly as I can in my oversized boots. When we're far enough from the house that it seems like a toy in the distance, Emmy begins her lurching casting dance. It takes a long time to complete, and is more complex than the fitting spell she'd done earlier. I watch as she spins, loops her arms, kicks out with a leg, then curls in on herself before throwing her arms in the air to release the magic into the air. She turns back to me, grinning, but I can't make myself smile back. Her unabashed exuberance at casting the spell only serves to remind me of what I've lost; it clangs in me, the clapper in a hollow bell.

"C'mon," Emmy says, not noticing. "We hafta do all four corners and shore up the sides." She starts marching along, bouncing a little as she goes. She starts humming, throwing her head to the sky, all her distress from this morning seemingly forgotten.

It takes me a few minutes of walking to figure out where to begin. "So," I say, tentative. "You went to school at Iris too, right?"

Emmy doesn't answer, but she gives me a one-shouldered shrug without turning around. This is, at least, better than hysterics, so I cast around my mind, trying to think of something to ask her about that won't seem threatening.

"D'you remember Professor Potsdam?" is what I decide on. After all, if she wasn't there for the expulsion, Emmy might not have bad memories of her.

All I get from Emmy is another shrug, and by that time we've reached a spot in the wards that needs shoring up, so I wait to allow Emmy to do her lurching spell before trying again.

"Professor Potsdam was the headmistress, right?" I say, as we begin to trudge up a hill. "And she dressed all in pink, with pink hair, and she always talked in this real high-pitched cheery voice?" I have to suppress a shiver when I realize I'm talking about Professor Potsdam in the past tense. But I manage to swallow my uneasiness down enough to do a passable Professor Potsdam impression. "Good _mor_ ning, starshines!"

Emmy gives a little jolt, and stops walking. "The pink lady," she murmurs. "She wouldn't help."

"Yeah! The pink lady!" I say, thrilled to have gotten this far. "What wouldn't she help with?" I ask, but I have the feeling I already know. Her mom - Emmy's mom, who was sick and needed help. And I just bet Professor Potsdam treated Emmy in just the same way as she'd treated me when I'd gone to her for help about Kyo - a cheerful grin, and a brush-off.

Emmy doesn't answer my question, but starts walking again. "She pretends to be nice," Emmy says. "But she's - scary."

"Yeah," I say without even a pause. "Yeah, I get that." I follow along as Emmy walks ahead, struggling to keep up with her long strides. "So - um," I say, "do you remember anyone else? Uh-" I rack my brain for anyone distinctive who might have been at school during Emmy's time. "William Danson?" I say. "Blue hair? He was student council president for... for the junior class, right?"

Emmy just keeps walking, not acknowledging what I'm saying.

_Someone distinctive, distinctive!_ "How about Angela Kirsch?" I try. "Red hair? Not like your red, but like, orangey red? And she was really mean?"

Emmy falters a little, but then starts walking again, purposeful, not turning back to look at me.

_Not distinctive enough_ , I think. Then I remember one very distinctive student, and have to supress a sigh before saying his name.

"Damien Ramsey?"

Emmy stops cold.

I stop behind her, suddenly worried that she might go off in hysterics again. I hold my breath, waiting for a reaction, but Emmy remains standing perfectly still. I screw up my courage and walk around to face her. She's crying - not the hysterical sobs from this morning, but big fat silent tears that roll down her face and drip from her chin. "Emmy?" I say.

"He's dead," Emmy says, and gives a huge sniff.

"What? He's not dead," I say. Emmy just shakes her head.

"He wouldn't tell anyone but me," she says, her voice thick. "He didn't _trust_ anyone but me. He was so sweet, and everyone else was just so - so _mean_!"

"Are you sure we mean the same Damien?" I ask. "Blue guy, wings? Jerky to you unless he wants something?"

Emmy's smiling now, but the tears are still running down her face in I way I didn't think was possible except in movies. "He was beautiful. Everyone else was just jealous. That's why they bullied him so much."

"Uccch," I say, rolling my eyes. "Between you and Ahmed-" I stop, suddenly, realization pouring over me and giving me goosebumps under my heavy sweater and jacket. "What did Damien tell you? That he wouldn't tell anyone else?"

Emmy's eyes dart to me, suddenly suspicious. "Why?" she asks. "What does it matter to you?"

"Because Damien's not dead," I say. "I just saw him three weeks ago. He's alive."

This time, Emmy seems to hear me. "But that can't - he told me he was dying," she says, her iris-less eyes looking around her in astonishment.

"Let me guess," I say, trying not to let my voice shake. "He said he'd die if you didn't let him have your soul?"

To my amazement, Emmy laughs at this, a high tinkling laugh. "He was _so_ dramatic!" she says. "I told him not to be silly, I wasn't going to go giving him my _soul_ , otherwise we wouldn't be able to be together once I saved him! So I told him not to worry, that I'd do some research and I'd find a cure for him! He was... mad." Her voice goes vague at this, her eyes losing focus - as much as iris-less eyes can lose focus - her speech slurring. "But I wouldn't let him... I wouldn't... because _nothing_ was more important than him and me, together, _nothing_." At this last, she seems to pull herself back together again. "He was so unselfish, he didn't want me to get into trouble, so I didn't tell him what I was going to do after that. But nobody would help."

"Who wouldn't help?" I ask.

Emmy loses focus again. "Nobody," she says "just... nobody."

"Professor Potsdam?" I prod. "You said she wouldn't help?"

Emmy just shakes her head as though she can't grasp what I'm asking.

I try my Professor Potsdam impression again. "Sit _down_ , gosling!"

"Oh!" Emmy says. "She was pink! She wouldn't help."

"Yeah, you said that," I say, my lips feeling numb. "So then what happened?"

"Huh?" Emmy says.

"You went to Professor Potsdam's private library?" I try. "How did you find out about it? How did you get in?"

Emmy shakes her head, a bit at first, then harder, faster.

"Professor Grabiner caught you?" I say. "Remember him? From this morning?"

"The man," Emmy says, but she doesn't continue. She stares into space, her eyes fathomless.

"He said you told him it was your mother who was sick," I prod, "that it wasn't Damien, but your mom?"

At the mention of Damien's name, Emmy straightens. "Oh! Well, I couldn't say it was _him_." She gives me a sly look. "Everyone else hated him! Nobody would want to help him but me. Nobody _understood_ him but me."

"So you did lie about your mom?" I say, my stomach sinking. All that outrage I'd poured upon Hieronymous this morning, and it was all because of a lie - a lie to save _Damien Ramsey_ , no less.

Emmy shrugs. "Yeah. Why?"

"I think I might owe someone an apology," I say. "And since he's banned from the kitchen… maybe some lunch, too. Do you know where there's anywhere we can get some food? Even if - uh - I don't have my wallet with me?"

"Ooh! Yeah!" Emmy says, grilling, all traces of her former sadness vanishing. "There's a convenience store by the outlet mall? We could get Twinkies after we finish the wards! I'm _starving_!"

"Great," I say, without much enthusiasm as Emmy bounds off before me.


	23. Chapter 23

I knock on the bedroom door, holding my breath and clutching my jacket around me with my other hand. It crinkles with the multitude of cellophane-wrapped snacks hidden in the depths of its pockets. My first foray into shoplifting had been successful, thanks to Emmy's quick fingers and my huge jacket, but it had been a little nerve wracking. I hadn't been able to look at the man behind the counter due to my shame of stealing from him - but after all, my husband needs to eat something, and until I can get him un-banned from Kip's kitchen, or get myself some petty cash, this is my lone option. Even while thinking this, I realize that it comes uncomfortably close to Emmy's reasoning for lying about Damien - but there's nothing to do about it now.

I have to knock twice more before I hear a terse "what?" I open the door a crack.

"Can I come in?" I ask. "I brought you lunch."

There's a quick sigh and an "all right," so I open the door fully. Hieronymous is back in bed - well, on the bed, actually, and reading one of his huge books. The back cover reads _Rules of Magical Civil Procedure of the United States with Case Examples_.

"Looks thrilling," I say, nodding at the book. He doesn't respond. For lack of anything better to do, I start to disgorge my loot from my jacket pockets onto the bedcover by his feet. Since Emmy and I'd had to move quickly, I hadn't exactly been picky about what I'd snatched from the convenience store shelves - my main concern had been keeping Emmy away from the candy aisle, as I'd had the feeling that Hieronymous wouldn't appreciate it if I showed up with only a pocketful of Skittles and Milky Ways. The result is a mix of crackers, chips, nuts, and other salty snacks, with the odd pastry - although I'd let Emmy keep the two packs of Twinkies that had found their way into the mix. She'd devoured both packs on the walk from the wards to the house, while I considered that she might give Virginia's sweet tooth a run for her money. Emmy had been completely cheerful during the adventure, giving no sign that she even remembered our earlier conversation about Damien, let alone her shock at seeing Hieronymous at breakfast.

Hieronymous looks at the motley arrangement of snacks on the coverlet, then cuts his eyes at me, eyebrows raised.

I find it difficult to suppress a smirk. "Sorry," I say, "but you're banned from the kitchen until further notice. I'm on probation, so I think I lose eating privileges if I try sneaking you anything. Anyway, you should be grateful - I've entered a life of crime so you won't starve."

Hieronymous snorts at this. "In that case, Madam Valjean, it would be churlish of me to refuse this... feast." He sifts through the snacks until he finds something that meets his approval. Lifting up a cracker packet between two fingers, he reads the label aloud. "Cheddar cheese crackers with peanut butter filling." He looks back to me. "How American."

"Well sir, if you don't find them to your satisfaction, I have a very fine vintage of Cool Ranch Doritos," I say, lifting a packet.

He glares at me. "I'll take the crackers, thank you," he says.

I smile, and tap my toes - happily liberated from the galoshes - on the carpet, not quite able to meet Hieronymous' eyes. I want to sit, but it seems too presumptuous of me to sit down on the bed, so instead I settle myself on the floor, with my back propped against the bedframe, my head resting on the side of the mattress. This is a little easier - at least I don't have to look at him.

"So, uh," I say, "I guess you probably get that I'm trying to say sorry for this morning, right?"

"The thought had crossed my mind," he says.

I draw my knees up to my chest and prop my chin on them. "It's weird," I say. "I thought we were getting along okay in August but now I feel like every time we try to talk, we get into some fight."

"The circumstances under which we are operating are rather trying," he says.

"Yeah," I admit. "I guess I just always thought, if I ever got married, I'd want my husband and me to be, like, a team. In adversity, or whatever."

"I'll ignore your grammatical eccentricities," he says, "and merely point out that for a seventeen-year-old girl, you seem to have given a great deal of thought to marriage prior to actually having wed."

I snort a little at this. "For a high school teacher you don't know a lot about seventeen-year-old girls. My best friend from school? Like, from before? Last I saw, she had a Pinterest that was pretty much all wedding dresses and cakes."

"Pinterest...?" He enunciates the word as though it were the name of a grotesque and poisonous insect.

"Computer thing."

He's silent for a moment, then says "do you miss her?"

I don't answer for a few seconds, surprised at his question. "I... guess?" I say, when I'm able to formulate the words. "It was kind of hard at first. Like, last year, when I went back for Thanksgiving break, she made a lot of noise about wanting to hang out with me and missing me and stuff. But she had this new boyfriend, and any time we were able to see each other, he was there, taking up all her attention. By the time it was Christmas they were hanging out with his best friend and girlfriend, like, as couples, so I was literally the fifth wheel." I shrug. "So I gave up."

I hug my knees, a little surprised with myself. I hadn't told anyone about my strange not-quite falling out with Kim, how she'd seemed to move on and leave me behind - or had it been me who'd left her behind? I'd considered talking to Ellen about it last year, thinking that she might understand how it felt, but she'd gone to visit Virginia's family that Thanksgiving. She'd been bubbling over about sledding and Indian pudding, so I hadn't gotten a word in edgewise. And then, by the time I'd gotten back into my school routine, it hadn't seemed quite so important any more. Talking about my ex-friendship now, it doesn't feel fresh, like a wound, but a little stiff, like prodding an old scar you'd half forgotten was there.

"Sometimes I think the rest of us don't appreciate what your sort has to give up when they join us," says Hieronymous. "We pretend to, and can become rather sanctimonious about it - moaning about how cruel it is to force you into the Choice, how a thirteen year old can't comprehend what it truly means. But perhaps we're just secretly glad that we don't have to make that kind of choice ourselves."

"Have you ever known anyone - not wildseed, someone magical - who said no?" I ask. "I mean, who said that they didn't want to be magical, and asked to have their power taken away?"

There's another silence, longer this time, before he says "not personally."

There's something about the way he says this - the terseness of tone, the crisp, clipped way he pronounces the syllables - that makes the hair on my arms stand on end. But try as I might, I can't tell exactly what about his words has bothered me so much. So I just say "oh," and hug my knees tighter.

The mattress behind me shifts, and Hieronymous' legs swing out next to me. He slides himself from the bed to join me sitting on the floor. I look up at him, a little startled. "What are you doing?"

"One of the rules of marriage," he replies, "aside from being a team in times of adversity, is that it is impolite to eat crackers in bed." He unwraps his cheddar peanut-butter cracker packet, examines the first cracker, and eats it.

"How is it?" I ask.

"Whatever visionary chose to combine cheese with peanut butter," he says after a few seconds of chewing, "deserves a place in culinary hell."

I laugh, and rest the side of my face on my knees, watching as he finishes the rest of the packet of crackers.

"I talked to Emmy - Musette, I guess," I say. "She did lie. It was Damien she was trying to save, not her mom."

"Really?" Hieronymous says, looking quizzically at me.

"Mmhm. I guess he told her he was dying or something. It was just to get her to give up her soul, same as he told Ahmed. But I guess she decided to research and find another way instead."

"I'm not surprised," Hieronymous says. "I remember her as being extremely inquisitive as a student. Very sharp. But very naïve."

"Not naïve enough for Damien, it sounds like," I say. "She wouldn't let him take her soul, thank heavens."

"I'm surprised he got as far as he did with her," Hieronymous says. "The only thing Damien ever excelled at in my class was mediocrity."

"Well he had to wait for Ahmed to be able to talk someone into the whole... soul exchange thing." I sigh. "And now he has Ahmed. Like, _all_ of him, not just his soul. I don't know if Damien's going to kill him, or trap him, or eat him or what."

"There isn't anything you can do about it now," Hieronymous says, not unkindly. "Especially if Mr. Al-Sharif gave his consent to be taken to the Otherworld, as you say he did."

"I know. But Ahmed... he was there for me when nobody else would even talk to me. How am I supposed to just leave him with someone who could hurt him like that?"

"No one else would talk to you?" Hieronymous says. "I don't recall you telling me that in your letters."

I wince, realizing that I've given away my idyllic myth of happy days at Iris Academy. "Yeah, uh, that was sort of... made up." He raises his eyebrows at me, and I shrug. "I just didn't want you to worry about me. And anyway, that's not important!"

Hieronymous just stares at me, and I rake a hand through my hair.

"It's really not important," I repeat, "and anyway, it's not like you were telling me the whole truth and nothing but the truth, right? It looks like you had a rotten time in England."

"That's true," Hieronymous says lightly. "Do you know Julie can't cook? She's just been buying Marks and Spencer takeaway and dressing it up on the family china." He gives me a wry look. "I don't think she's realized I've noticed."

I snort with laughter at this, and he twists his mouth at me. "What?"

"Nothing," I say. "But seriously, what's been going on with you? You look awful, and I know that's not just Marks and Spencer takeaway."

Hieronymous huffs a small sigh, then says "politics."

"Oh," I reply. "So the council wasn't happy about you giving up that Parliamentary position?"

"Not exactly," Hieronymous replies. "There's been some rather contentious legislation enacted in the UK, and I'm afraid I've found myself caught up on the thick of it."

"Why?" I ask. "What is it?"

"The council," he says, "has repealed a law requiring the education of wildseed children who make the Choice. The effect is that all newly discovered wildseeds are prevented from joining the magical community entirely."

"Oh!" I say, suddenly remembering. "I know! Tabby wrote me."

"Excuse me?" Hieronymous asks.

"Tabby - Mrs. Craft's granddaughter? She came to the house with her parents, remember? Well, she had some... signs that she was going to turn out to be a witch, right? So I told her that if anything weird happened to her on her birthday-"

"Eliza, that was extremely reckless," Hieronymous says, alarmed.

"I didn't tell her what was going to happen, just something weird," I say, waving off his concern. "Anyway, she wrote me but it was to tell me that all her power had gone away - like how she could tell her grandmother was magic, and how the two of us weren't really cousins-"

"Fantastic," Hieronymous mutters, but I plow over him.

"But she wouldn't have said no to the Choice," I insist. "She was like her grandmother - she would have done anything to do magic." I shake my head, the enormity of the situation washing over me. "God. Poor Tabby. Poor all of them. But-" I start, "why would you be involved in something like that? Was your - your father in the council?"

"No," Hieronymous says. "He was, once, but in the years prior to his death, he merely advised the council members. Actually, to say 'merely' does not do him enough credit. He exercised an extraordinary amount of influence upon them due to his position in society, and his reputation. And in that capacity he had apparently been pressing for repeal of the Wildseed Education Act for several years."

"Hm. I'm not surprised." My voice goes hard and bitter at the mention of my late father in law. He had thought so little of wildseeds that he'd had no compunction in killing an entire group of them just to steal their latent magic. "So what, did you try to change their minds or something?"

"In a way," Hieronymous says, and then goes silent, rubbing at his mouth with one hand.

"How do you mean - 'in a way?'" I ask, after the silence has extended to an uncomfortable length.

"It appears that the councilmembers - some of them, at least - believed that I was actually my father."

I stare at Hieronymous, open-mouthed. "But how-" I start, before realizing that of course they would think that Hieronymous was his own father - if, that is, they were in on my father-in-law's scheme to kill Hieronymous and take over his body. The fact that the highest governmental body in the UK were party to Aloysius Grabiner's murders is almost overwhelming. "Professor Potsdam told me she explained everything to them," I breathe, still not quite prepared to accept the implications of what Hieronymous has just told me.

"Apparently she 'explained' things in such a way that the council were under the impression that my father's scheme had once again succeeded," Hieronymous says. "Once I realized this fact, I did not do much to disabuse them of that notion. Except advocate rather strenuously against the repeal of that law."

"And it didn't work," I say.

He gives a little shrug. "I hadn't sufficient time to counter my father's years of lobbying," he says, "and if I'd made it too obvious, I would have been in a rather difficult position."

"It sounds like a difficult position anyway," I say, with a sudden appreciation of what he must have been going through in the past few months.

"The only accomplishment I managed was a connection with the underground," he says. "They seem to be rather invested in wildseed education, and upon their realizing my own position, they contacted me and provided me with certain information, should I find myself in an emergency."

"So that's how you knew about the safehouses," I say. "So you came to the US when you found out I was in trouble?"

Hieronymous shifts, looking suddenly uncomfortable. "Not exactly," he says, settling back against the bed frame. "When your - situation - became known to me, I was already in New York."

"What?" I say, aghast. "You were here? And you didn't tell me?"

"Understand, Eliza, that I was in the same position that I had been in England - attempting to convince those dangerous individuals who knew my father's secret that I was, in fact, him. To be corresponding with my seventeen year old daughter-in-law in any - ah - intimate fashion would have been extremely suspicious."

"You wrote me just fine from England," I say.

"Prior to arousing suspicions by arguing against my father's political positions, I did, yes. Once I discovered my correspondence was being monitored, however..." he trails off, bringing his own knees to his chest. "I couldn't risk involving you."

 _Hence the letter telling me not to distinguish myself_ , I realize. "I seem to have gotten myself involved without any help," I say. I meant it to be funny, but Hieronymous doesn't crack a smile.

"It appears to be one of your more unique talents," he says.

"But you told me to be careful of Professor Terrec. Like, him specifically," I say, remembering the substance of his letter. "Why him?"

"For the simple reason that, apart from my father, Yves Terrec has been the most vocal opponent of wildseed education on two continents," Hieronymous says, "and is possibly the most influential. I suspect that his time in England was spent ensuring that the UK's counsel was certain to repeal the Wildseed Education Act, and once his position was secure, he traveled here for the same purpose. I imagine he accepted the position at Iris Academy in order to compile evidence of poorly behaving wildseeds to present to the council."

"So you were here to argue against him?" I say.

"Yes. Unfortunately, however, I was about as successful in my arguments as I had been in England. And now that I've absconded with my underage, fugitive wife, I'm afraid that what little influence I may have held with the United States' council has entirely evaporated."

I wince at this. "Sorry."

He shrugs. "I doubt I would have made much headway. Yves' prestige with the United States' council vastly exceeds my own - or my father's for that matter."

"Yeah," I say. "During the trial it almost seemed like he was running things - he kept getting away with stuff, and the Chairman wouldn't do anything to stop him, even when he took my magic away." I ponder this, chewing absently on a thumbnail. "Do you think he has something on Chairman Mather?"

"It's possible, but if he does, I haven't the slightest idea what," Hieronymous says. "Although I intend to find out," he adds with a grim expression.

"So that's the plan," I say. "Leave me here and go investigating until you can divorce me and get me out of the way?"

"I would have said 'seen you safely back to your family,' but you have the essence of it," Hieronymous replies. "Although I must assume that you have a different notion in mind?"

"Yep," I say. "We're supposed to be a team, remember?"

"A teenage girl with no magical ability and a failed teacher and failed politician who can't get the simplest memory spell correct," Hieronymous says, acerbic.

"Well, that's the thing," I reply. "I don't think you messed up that memory spell."

Hieronymous sighs. "Thank you for your faith in me, but I'm as capable of making mistakes as anyone. More so, I'm beginning to think."

I shake my head. "I know, it's just that talking to Emmy... it was weird. It was like she remembered Damien but not anything else. I mean, she remembered Professor Potsdam, but it was just because she wouldn't help when Emmy told her Damien was sick. And she remembered you, because you were the one who caught her while she was researching Damien's illness. Anything else? Anything that didn't involve Damien somehow? Just went - whoosh," I say, making a sweeping motion over my head.

Hieronymous considers this for a moment, then says quietly, "you do understand that this is not proof that I didn't make a mistake in taking her magic away as well."

"I know," I say, "but there's more to it. There's the way she casts - she didn't learn it in school, she doesn't even _remember_ school except the Damien bits - but she knows spells. Complicated ones, like you wouldn't learn with just one year at Iris."

Hieronymous is shaking his head. "Eliza-"

"And then there's her eyes - didn't you see them?" I interrupt. "They're all pupil. Neither of your spells would have done that, would they?"

Hieronymous goes still for a long time before he says "no. Her eyes were blue. I remember that. They looked strange with her red hair and black robes. They didn't fit." Then he shakes himself, going brisk again. "That isn't any proof-"

"I know," I say, "but if I could get proof, something out of her, if she could tell me what she did, then maybe - maybe whatever happened to get her magic back, I could do it too." I cut off, seeing Hieronymous give me a very skeptical look. "Well it beats sitting on my ass for two months then going home," I say. "And if I can get my magic back, maybe I can figure out a way to help you out with the council." I hold my right hand out for him to shake. "What do you say? Team?"

Hieronymous gives me a measured look, then says "all right. For now." But instead of shaking my hand with his right, he takes it in his left, pressing my fingers for the briefest moment before letting me go again. He stands, and so do I.

"All right," I say "time for investigation mode, I guess."

"By all means," says Hieronymous, and I squint at him.

"You just agreed to this so I'd get out of our hair," I say.

Hieronymous gives me a look that's all innocence. "Now why would I do that?" he says.

I wrinkle my nose at him. "Just you wait," I say, "I'm going to crack this case wide open." With that, I sweep out of the room.


	24. Chapter 24

I head toward Emmy's room, but when I knock on the door, there's no answer. I walk downstairs instead, but the only person I find there is Kip. He seems to have finished with kitchen duties, and is instead in the largest parlor, washing the windows with some crumpled newspaper.

Kip turns toward me as I enter the room. "Oh," he says, when he sees it's me. "Lunch in an hour." He turns back to the windows.

"I was just looking for Emmy," I say.

"She's wandered off," Kip replies curtly. "No doubt she'll be back when she's hungry."

"Oh," I say, watching as Kip finishes one window and moves to the next. "Listen, can I help you with any of this?" I ask, suddenly filled with guilt at letting Kip do all the dishes, and the cleaning, too.

Kip squints at me for a moment, then sighs. "If you feel compelled," he says, "you can get started on the dusting." he nods toward a bucket filled with cleaning supplies and rags. I fish a can of Pledge and a rag from the mix, and start to work on the fireplace mantel. It's so huge, I have to stand on tiptoe to reach to the wall.

The two of us clean in silence for several minutes before I get up the courage to say "keeping all this up by yourself - it's got to be a huge job."

"I'm used to it," Kip says curtly, then goes silent again.

"You were saying you needed some help," I prod. "With the insulation? Maybe Hieronymous could-"

Kip whirls on me. "Look," he says, "You seem like a nice girl, and I'm glad Emmy has a friend. But that man comes nowhere near me - or her - so long as he stays on this house."

I let Kip clean in silence a bit more before trying to press my case. "I don't mean he needs to go near you," I say quietly. "Just tell me what needs to be done, and I'll have him do it. For a little food in exchange, maybe."

Kip doesn't answer, but polishes his window with furious intensity.

"I mean," I add, hoping it doesn't take me over the line, "It seems silly to have someone here who could help out and not take advantage of it."

Kip stops polishing. "I'll think about it," he says, "all right?"

"Yeah," I say, "thanks." I resume dusting a side table.

We work in silence for a few more minutes, but this time, it's Kip who breaks the silence.

"They found her wandering the streets. In _Rutland_. In March. It was freezing and she didn't have anything to eat. She got caught stealing candy from a gas station. She got lucky - our people got to her first." He shakes his head, staring out the window at the gray-on-gray sky. "So many aren't lucky."

"So they brought her to you?" I say, absently rubbing the same spot on the side table.

"After a while," he says. "She didn't quite... fit in anywhere else. She needs space. And time." He begins balling the newspaper in his hand, the paper crinkling against the glass. "It took her months to say two words to me at a time - it was like having a feral cat who keeps hiding under furniture as soon as you walk into the room. But we got used to each other. We started taking care of each other, like - like family." Kip suddenly balls his hand into a fist, his newspaper giving a sudden crunch. "And now _he_ waltzes in, demanding sanctuary with his school authority and his child bride?"

"That's not fair," I say quickly. "He married me to save my life."

"Well he _wrecked_ Emmy's," Kip spits, "and I got to pick up the pieces."

I consider this. Kip and I could argue over whose fault it all was until the sun went down and came up again, and never be able to agree. What's more, we wouldn't be able to change a single thing about Emmy's fate - or mine.

So instead of arguing, I say "I wish I could have known her before all this happened."

Kip stops crumpling his newspaper, and says in a softer voice, "I do too."

I take in a breath, hold it, and say "well, there's someone in this house who did."

Kip whirls around, and I flinch, but he doesn't move towards me. "What are you saying?" he asks, voice low and terse.

"That I think we should talk to her," I say. "All three of us, together."

"I don't see what use that would be," Kip says. "You saw her this morning. She can't be in the same room as him without going hysterical."

"That's why I need you there!" I say. "Listen - I have to know if Hieronymous messed those spells up or not, because if he didn't, there's a chance I can get my magic back too. But if he did, if all this is his fault-" I swallow hard. "Then I don't have a chance. I end up like her. Memory spelled and kicked out."

Kip studies me for a moment, then says "would he really do that? To you, too?"

I shrug. "I mean," I say reluctantly, "It's not what I'd pick for myself, but I kind of see his point. If you had a choice, where would Emmy be? Here with you, stealing clothes and candy and wandering around the woods? Or safe at home with her family, with no memories at all about what happened?"

"Fair play," Kip replies, "but have you considered that if you're right, it was the very act of getting her magic back that made Emmy what she is today?"

I shiver a little. I hadn't thought of that - well, to be fair, I _had_ , but then shoved the thought into the back recesses of my brain as being too disturbing to contemplate. I give Kip a smile, though it feels wan on my face. "Well, finding out isn't going to hurt."

"I wonder," Kip says, then shakes his head. He begins to scrub another window pane, his fist making tiny concentric circles until I wonder whether he's going to wear through the glass.

"I'll make you a deal," he says, suddenly, and my heart lifts with sudden hope.

"I'll give you one chance to speak with Emmy. One. If she refuses, both of you leave my house. Not because I've forced you out, mind, but because you've decided to leave of your own free will."

I look at him, alarmed. "Uh-"

Kip gives me another grin, but this time there's no friendliness in it. "And if Emmy _does_ speak with you, you still leave my house. Again, of your own free will - not because I've forced anything on you. If you want to stay, you can stay - but without questioning Emmy. Do you understand?"

"I - yeah, I understand-" I say, my mind whirling, trying to consider what I should do. If I want to stay safe in this house, I can't question Emmy about Damien - but then, I'd be giving up what might be my only chance to get my magic back. I think for a few seconds, then decide.

"All right," I say, "it's a deal."

"All right," Kip echoes. "And as part of that deal, I'll give you that list of chores you were asking for. Chores, dinner, talk, _out_. I'll let you stay the night, but first thing in the morning, you go." He walks to the entrance of the room, then pauses, looking back at me. "And next time, you might want to think a bit before you decide to use an innocent girl for your own selfish-" he cuts off, then stomps out, leaving me open-mouthed, and a bit ashamed of myself.

 _But what choice have I got?_ I think, over and over as I wait for Kip to come back. When he does, I take his list of chores and trudge up the stairs without looking him in the eye.

Hieronymous is still sitting on the bed with his book, scribbling in a small notepad when I enter the bedroom. I hand him the list from Kip without saying anything. Hieronymous takes it, reads it, then cocks an eyebrow at me.

"Housework," he says, as though the word stings his mouth.

"I got us into a kind of... work exchange program?" I say, squinching up my face.

Hieronymous glares at me. "And you've volunteered me to do the work, is that right?"

"If we do it, we get a chance to talk to Emmy. Also, dinner," I say, then relate the gist of my conversation with Kip. I'm painfully aware that not only have I given up both our standing in this safehouse, but that I'm giving a list of household chores to a viscount who - as far as I know - has never so much as washed a single dish in his life. I figure that it's better for me to impart the worst of the news to him once he's finished with the chores.

When I finish speaking, Hieronymous doesn't say anything. He just stands, stretches, and stalks from the room. Once I get the courage to scurry after him, I find him in a hallway bathroom, examining a leaky faucet.

"Do you know the spell for that?" I ask.

Hieronymous considers the faucet, chin in hand for a moment. Then he says, without turning to me, "not specifically, but I've always assumed indoor plumbing ran largely on magic anyway - how hard can it be to improvise?"

"Sorry about all this," I say, slightly mollified by his surprisingly positive attitude. "It must be pretty annoying."

"Not at all," he says, lightly. "If we are acting as a team, we must supplement each others' weaknesses with our own strength. So you're to deal with other people, and I can do... plumbing, I suppose." He turns back to me then, giving me a quick, wry smile, and I have to force myself to smile back.

For the remainder of the afternoon, I trail Hieronymous around the house, making a pretense of helping by identifying the next item on the chore list, but unable to perform any meaningful action without the use of magic. I try instead to think of what I'm going to say to Emmy, to try to convince her to allow Hieronymous and me to speak to her without going hysterical. Everything I think of sounds trite and unlikely to help. Even more, I keep getting distracted by what Kip had said to me this evening. Is that really what I'm doing - using people to get what I want? Ahmed, for the elections - Emmy as just another source of information? And Hieronymous, now gamely casting spells to thicken the insulation in the walls - am I using him?

I watch as he casts, testing the walls to see where the insulation has gone patchy, measuring out the space he needs to fill. And I think about what I had yelled at him this morning in my fit of rage - that if he hadn't messed up his spells while experimenting with his family manus, I wouldn't be here now. But the same is true for him - if I hadn't run into the protective circle without thinking, he wouldn't be here. No having to play defense attorney, no escape, no desperate flight, no huddling in this rickety house with a host who will barely tolerate him. He'd be - I don't know - back in New York or London, trying his hand at politics. Or even back at Iris Academy, still teaching.

 _Or he could be dead_ , I think, with a sudden shudder, _and that could be his father in there instead_.

My stomach seems to do a lazy flip inside my torso as I try and fail to banish the thought. But even with all that, I still can't bring myself to believe that Hieronymous's life is better with me in it than it would have been without me at all.

 _Maybe I should just do what he wanted me to do in the first place_ , I think. _Just wait it out and let him send me home - let him get rid of me._

But my entire body seems to clench in mixed fear and rage at the thought. It would be like cutting off both my arms to live without magic - like cutting out part of my brain to live without the memories I've made of the magical world. How can I just give in to fate when I have the slimmest chance to get my life back?

"There," Hieronymous says, interrupting my reverie. "I think that should do it."

"Insulation all fixed?" I ask.

"Yes, either that or I've filled the walls with pink candy floss," Hieronymous says. "I suppose the vermin situation will let Kip know which one it is eventually. What's next?"

By the time dinner is ready, I'm so tense, my nerves are practically vibrating. Kip still doesn't allow Hieronymous to eat in the kitchen with the rest of us, but he at least gives me a plate of spaghetti and salad to give to him. When I take Hieronymous his plate in the small room with the springless sofa, he raises his eyebrows at me.

"I'm eating with Emmy," I say. "try to soften her up, you know? See if I can get her calm enough to talk to us after dinner." Upon much consideration, I'd decided that the best plan would be to try our interrogation following the meal, but prior to dessert, so Kip could have a chance to bribe Emmy with sugar, if that's what it took. Kip had grudgingly agreed, and baked an enormous chocolate cake that was now sitting enticingly on one of the kitchen counters.

"So," I continue, "when you're done, I figure you should wait outside the kitchen while I try talking to her, and come in when you think I have her in a good place." I step back, considering. "Maybe you should do something about your, y'know, appearance?"

"Oh?" Hieronymous says with a sardonic emphasis.

"Just so she doesn't freak out so much," I say, attempting a conciliatory sort of tone. "You might not have noticed this, but even to people who don't scream bloody murder when you walk into the room, you can be a little intimidating."

Hieronymous smirks. "I could try a glamor, I suppose. It's been years since I've done one, but I think I can manage it."

"Yeah?" I say, my voice shaking a little.

"Yes. Now stop fretting at me and go eat your dinner before it gets cold."

I grin in spite of myself. "Thanks," I say, then on impulse I lean over and kiss him on the cheek. "Really - thank you for doing this." When I pull away, he's no longer smiling.

"Let me eat, please," he says, voice terse.

"Yeah." I say. "Okay."

Dinner is a grim affair, with Kip glaring at me over his plate of spaghetti, and me growing more nervous with every bite I take from my plate. Emmy appears not to notice. Despite her Twinkie lunch, she hoovers up her plate of spaghetti - which she's dusted with a veritable blizzard of Parmesan flakes - getting sauce smears around her mouth. She chats happily about our shoplifting excursion and the birds she saw on her afternoon walk, and seems not to notice that neither Kip nor I are very engaged in the conversation. Kip's only contribution, in fact, is a largely ineffective urging for Emmy to please eat some salad along with her spaghetti. I eat in silence, thinking of how much I miss eating dinner in the Iris Academy cafeteria with Ellen and Virginia, or with Ahmed and Suki.

Once we've eaten, Kip clears our plates, and I settle myself in front of Emmy, hoping my dinner won't attempt a sudden reappearance.

"So, Emmy," I say, "I need to ask you something. Remember what we talked about this morning?"

"Twinkies?" Emmy says. "Have you got any more, for dessert?"

"I think Kip made chocolate cake for dessert," I say, "but that's not what I meant. Remember we were talking about Damien Ramsey?"

"Damien?" Emmy says brightly, then her face falls. "He's dead," she says, looking as though she's on the verge of tears.

"No - no, he isn't dead," I say, giving Kip a hurried glance, terrified that he'll shut the entire conversation down if Emmy begins to cry. "But that's not it either, it's about you getting expelled from school, do you remember that?"

Emmy blinks at her tears, looking at the table, but she doesn't say anything.

"You were in Professor Potsdam's library," I say, trying to prompt her memory. "Trying to research that cure for Damien?"

"He's dead," Emmy says, her voice hoarse.

"And Professor Grabiner came in and found you? Do you remember him? You saw him this morning?"

Emmy just blinks at me, her black eyes blank. I grit my teeth - I was able to jog her memory with a Professor Potsdam impression, but my headmistress's trill is easy to imitate - I can't get my voice low enough to try a passable Grabiner impression. "Do you think if he came in here now, you could talk to him?" I ask. "If I promised you he wouldn't do anything to you, just talk? Would you be scared?"

"Scared of what?" Emmy says brightly, her tears forgotten.

I hiss my breath out between my teeth. This isn't going to work - I'm going to have to just call him in and hope for the best. I risk another glance at Kip, who's glowering at me from near the sink, waiting for the excuse to throw me out.

 _It doesn_ _'t matter anyway_ , I think. _We_ _'re done. I shouldn't have bothered._

When Emmy makes a small sound, half squeak and half choke, I barely notice, so sunk am I in my gloom. But when she stands, shoving her chair aside so hard that it tips over and runs to the entrance of the kitchen, I start, staring after her. And when I see what she's running to, I stare in slack-jawed shock.

Damien Ramsey is standing in the kitchen entrance, school uniform and all. Emmy throws herself into his arms, and he grabs her before she can knock them both down. I find myself standing with no memory of having gotten up from my chair, my mouth open, about to shout at him to leave her alone.

And then I notice that he's taller than he should be. I remember Damian as being of medium height, with a delicate compact quality about him that makes him seem smaller than he actually is. This Damien is several inches too tall, with a rangy lankiness about him that wasn't there before. His hair is the right color purple, but it falls in loose waves rather than straight locks. And there's a line between his eyebrows that certainly wasn't present in the twenty year old demon I'd just seen a few weeks ago.

Emmy buries her head into not-Damien's chest, and he gives me an entirely uncharacteristic scowl over her shoulder. I let my breath out in a sudden huff, uncertain whether I'm about to laugh, cry, or scream. _The glamor,_ I think. _Hieronymous said he_ _'d use a glamor, but I didn't think he'd do_ this.

"It's all right, Musette," Hieronymous says, patting Emmy's back awkwardly with one blue hand. "Everything's all right."


	25. Chapter 25

"Damien!" moans Emmy against Hieronymous' school uniform. Her arms are tight around his neck, hands clenched in his purple hair. She clings there, making sounds that could be sobs, and could be bursts of relieved laughter.

As Emmy continues to cling, I glance at Kip, who's still by the sink. I meet his eyes, and I don't read much good in them. He remains silent, though, and lets Emmy finish her display of emotion without moving to intervene.

When Emmy pulls away, the front of Hieronymous' school uniform is soaked, and rather sticky looking. Emmy looks up into his face, and I hold my breath, waiting for her to notice that this Damien isn't quite right.

"You're not dead!" she says, then deliberately pokes him in the chest with one finger. She looks back up, waiting for a reaction. Hieronymous only gives her a puzzled stare.

"Nope," she concludes. "Not dead. Ghosts hate it when you poke them." Then she gives Hieronymous a dazzling grin. "You found me!"

"Ah. Yes," Hieronymous says, looking far more flustered than Damien would in this circumstance, I imagine. "I've been looking for you."

In spite of my shock, I have to bite my cheek to keep from laughing out loud at Hieronymous' attempt at an American accent - it's dreadful. He darts a glance at me and I have to look away, or else I really will burst into giggles. My grip on the back of my chair begins to relax, and I realized how cramped my joints have gotten in the minute or so I've been standing.

"And now you found me!" Emmy says, gleefully throwing her arms around Hieronymous' neck once again. He's beginning to look a bit shellshocked at her enthusiastic greeting, so I clear my throat.

"Do you two want to sit down?" I ask.

"Please," Hieronymous says, and starts to drag Emmy toward the table. She follows somewhat reluctantly, gripping his arm in a tight clench.

"You can live here," she's saying as she drags a chair so they can sit, knee to knee, at the table with me. "You can stay in my room. It'll be so - so _perfect_ ," she gushes.

"Right. Yes. Well," Heironymous says, "I came because I needed to talk to you about something."

"Okay," Emmy says, her face turned up to him, open and trusting.

Watching Emmy, I begin to feel a squirmy sensation in the pit of my stomach, but I do my best to ignore it. _This is what you wanted_ , I remind myself. _A way to get Emmy to remember her time at school without freaking out. And as far as plans go, I have to admit that it's pretty genius._

"I need you to remember back to the day you were expelled from school," Hieronymous continues. "Can you do that?"

Emmy blinks a few times. "I was helping you," she says. "You told me not to, but I did anyway. Because I love you!" At this last, she throws her arms around Hieronymous's neck again, forcing him to pry her off and sit her back in her own chair.

"Yes," Hieronymous says. "How were you trying to help me?"

Emmy's eyes go vacant, and she is still and silent for a moment. She says slowly, as though in a trance, "You said you were sick. That cambions - anyone half demon and half human - got sick. And that you needed someone's soul if you wanted to get better."

Hieronymous takes this in, his brows knitting, a faint trace of disgust in his expression. "Did I ask for your soul, Musette?" he asks.

"Don't call me that any more," Musette says. "That's my old name. I have trouble remembering it. When Kip found me, the only thing I could remember was the em. Emmmmm," she repeats, a little dreamily. "So we decided on Emmy, you know?"

"That's very… inventive of you," Hieronymous says. "But we were speaking of my… ah… disease?"

"Oh! Right," Emmy says, seeming to snap back into the moment. "You didn't ask for my soul, not _exactly_ , you just kind of hinted that you wouldn't mind if I, you know, _offered_ it to you. But I _told_ you, that's silly. If you love me, you'd want me to _be_ with you, not give up my soul or something." She laughs as though this were the most obvious thing in the world, but I feel chilled. _That_ _'s what he said to Ahmed_ , I think. _To get him to give himself up._ Had Ahmed been so starved for someone to understand him that he'd say yes - knowing all it would mean? The thought makes me feel nauseated. _Please don_ _'t let him be dead_ , I think. _Please_.

"I thought there had to be some kind of other way, but I couldn't find anything in the school library, so I…" Emmy trails off, seeming distracted. "I started looking. For another way. Because I thought there had to be more… _books_. And I looked and I looked and-"

"And you found them?" Hieronymous asks.

"Yes!" Emmy's faced splits into a huge grin. "I found them!"

"How?" demands Hieronymous, sounding dangerously close to his own imperious tone. "How did you find them?"

"The door opened!" Emmy says with a bright grin. "I was so happy. All the books I could want! Not kids' books either, _real_ ones. But..." she trails off again, then begins more slowly. "I didn't know _which_ book. There were so many. And before I even had a really proper look… I…." Emmy's voice trails into silence, and her eyes lose focus.

"You were caught?" Hieronymous prompts.

"There was the man," Emmy says, then she squinches her face up. "He was so _mean_. I told him it was my mother who was sick, I knew he wouldn't believe me about you. And even if he did, you'd only get into trouble. I didn't want you to get in trouble because of what I did." Emmy pauses to snuffle, and to wipe her nose with the back of her hand. "But he said - he said-"

I lean closer across the table as Emmy struggles with the words.

"He said he didn't care!" Emmy bursts. "That he didn't care _who_ was dying, even if it _was_ my mother." She shakes her head. "He was awful."

I look up at Hieronymous, alarmed. He only cuts his now violet eyes at me, gives me a curt nod, and turns back to Emmy. The squirmy feeling in my stomach seems to double up on itself.

"And then he expelled you," Hieronymous prompts. "What happened next? What do you remember? Did you remember school?"

"I went home," Emmy says, and this time her voice is clearer, steadier. "I went home and went to school when the semester started. Regular school. My parents acted weird around me, like, trying to be extra nice to me, but it was so fake." Her voice takes on a tone of rage as she continues. "They ate, and they drank, and they talked - _mah mah mah_ \- just like they were people, but they were just cardboard cutouts of parents, they weren't _real_." Her voice goes softer, gentler. "And I kept dreaming about you."

"How is that possible?" Hieronymous asks, equally quiet. His voice shakes slightly in a way that - I think - only I notice.

Emmy shrugs as though this question is completely absurd. "I'd never forget about _you_ ," she says, glancing up mischievously from under her eyelashes. "And the more I dreamed about you, the more I _remembered_ you, and the more I remembered you the more I knew that I - I couldn't stay. With them. Because there was something out there - more. More than that life. So I left."

"Where did you go?" Hieronymous asks.

"Just places," Emmy says with another shrug. "I remembered something about Vermont so I decided to try to go there first. On a train. But I couldn't find it - the place I remembered - and it was so cold, and I was running out of money."

"When was that?" I interrupt, and the sharpness on my voice causes everyone in the room to turn to me. "I mean what month?" I say.

"January," Emmy says. "After Christmas. I got a parka for Christmas and it helped some."

Even with a Christmas parka on hand, the thought of running around the Vermont mountains strikes me as horribly dangerous. And then, if Kip's calculation was right, she had stayed out there for two entire months before being taken in.

"Did get to Vermont right away, then?" Hieronymous asks, and I can see the happy relief in Emmy's eyes , when she focuses on him again.

"Nah. It was a long way from Ohio and I ran out of money real quick. I had to start sneaking onto trains. It was fun, but a little scary. I had to hide a lot, but I'm good at hiding. And seeking!" she adds with a bright smile. "I was looking for you."

"You didn't find me," Hieronymous says.

Emmy sighs. "No," she says. " _It_ found me first."

"What found you first?" asks Hieronymous.

"The thing," she says. "The thing with no shape."

There's a long silence before Hieronymous asks "what thing with no shape?"

Emmy gives a high, silvery peal of laughter, and presses herself against Hieronymous' chest. "Don't be silly!" she says, "you told me about it!"

"I-" Hieronymous starts, then recovers. "What did I tell you?"

Emmy laughs again, then winks at me. " _Boys_ ," she says. "They love to tell you scary stories and take you to scary movies and stuff, so you get scared and snuggle them. Well I _like_ being scared. And anyway, you don't need to trick _me_ into snuggles." This she makes evident by pressing herself harder into Hieronymous's chest.

"Happy day," Hieronymous mutters through gritted teeth.

"Will you tell me the story?" I ask.

"I don't remember it all," Emmy says. "He tells it better. You can tell her," she adds, addressing Hieronymous, "but no trying for snuggles, got it?"

"Heaven forbid," Hieronymous says, giving me an unhappy look.

"Are you sure you can't tell me, Emmy?" I say.

Emmy looks off into space for a moment, then slowly shakes her head. "I don't remember," she says. "It was a fairy tale. A scary one. But-" she says, lifting her head from Hieronymous' shoulder to give him an accusatory look, "it's not a fairy tale, is it? It's real. I saw it in that book."

"What book?" Hieronymous snaps.

"The book on demons in the little library," Emmy says muzzily, as though she hadn't heard the sharpness in Hieronymous' voice. "The library that had all the real books in it. I laughed when I found it - I thought you'd just been using it to scare me and snuggle me, when all the time it was real. That all the stories about the demons you told me were really real! I was going to ask you if you knew - next time I saw you." She frowns, her face melancholy. "Only I didn't see you again."

"He's here now," I prompt, and Emmy's head snaps up again, a brilliant smile on her face.

" _Right_!" she says, then turns back to Hieronymous. "Did you know? That the story was real, I mean?"

"Ah." Hieronymous says, "Ah - no. I did not know it was real. You said that it related to stories about demons?"

"It doesn't matter," Emmy says, snuggling happily into Hieronymous' shoulder. "Just some big book."

I clench my fists tight, holding back a shriek of frustration. _It's not her fault_ , I think to myself. _Remember, it's not her fault_. "Okay," I say, "Let's skip the book for now. What was the thing with no shape? How did you find it?"

"I _told_ you," Emmy says, "I didn't find it, it found me. It likes finding things when they're lost. Especially little girls. That's what it told me."

A shudder runs through me as I recall my late father-in-law's voice. _You know the stories, don't you?_ he'd said. _Even a wildseed like you knows them. Little girls who fall down the rabbit hole, or get lost in the woods, or run three times around the church widdershins_. His hands digging into the soft skin on my cheeks, bruising it, enjoying himself.

"Are you all right?" Hieronymous says to me, his voice sharp - and back to British. I look up and force myself to nod.

"How did it find you, then?" I ask, hoping Emmy hasn't noticed "Damien's" change of accent.

Emmy still looks obliviously dreamy as she says "I don't know, it just did. One minute I was trying to get some sleep under a bridge-"

Kip interrupts this disclosure with a loud sigh, but doesn't say anything.

"And the next minute, I was somewhere else. Well - it was like being in nowhere, really. But it was there with me."

"And what happened?" Hieronymous asks.

"It asked me if I was lost, and it told me it was lonely. And I looked lonely too, and would I like to play a game? It told me if I won, he would give me whatever I wanted." She gives Hieronymous a look that manages to be shy and sly all at once. "You can probably guess what I asked for."

"But you didn't win," Hieronymous says.

"Well," says Emmy, "I _did_ win, but I realized that if I didn't have any magic, I wouldn't be able to stay with you. Like _permanently_ stay. So it didn't take me to you. I asked for my magic back, and I got it back, but it gave me something else too."

"What, Emmy?" I ask, mouth dry around the words "What did it give you?"

"My new eyes," she says. "Now I can see it."

"Emmy," I wail, almost at my brink, "see _what_?"

Emmy gives a laugh, as though I've just asked her what color the sky is on a cloudless day. " _All_ of it!" she says, reaching an arm above her head as though she's about to grasp some invisible rung there. She twists her hand, wrist and arm, and suddenly I feel a gust of warm air across my face - a breeze spell.

"Musette," Hieronymous says, "what game did you play?"

She turns to him with a huge smile. "Monopoly!"

Try as we might - and we do try, mightily - neither Hieronymous nor I manage to get anything more out of Emmy. She snuggles closer into Hieronymous' shoulder, yawning. I'm tired too, so it's an enormous relief when Hieronymous says "I'm afraid I need to be going."

Suddenly Emmy is all attention. "What? No!" she says. "You can't leave, you have to stay with me!"

"The - the nature of my illness renders it impossible for me to leave the Otherworld for any significant amount of time," Hieronymous says, improvising as smoothly as he can.

"Yeah," Emmy replies. "And it sure makes you talk funny."

I look at her, alarmed, but there's no guile in Emmy's voice - just resignation.

"Can't I go with you?" she asks.

"Muse - Emmy - you know why you can't."

She sighs. "I know," she says, "but when I get older, I'm coming to find you. You can't stop me."

"So it would seem," Hieronymous mutters, then stands. "Goodbye, Emmy."

Emmy stands too, sways for a moment, then throws herself into Hieronymous's arms.

"Don't forget," she says, "I'm coming after you." And before he can step back, she takes his face in both her hands and kisses him straight on the mouth.

I start, about to protest, but then snap my jaw shut just in time. I don't dare break the illusion - I can only watch in what feels like agonizing slow motion as Emmy continues to kiss my husband. Hieronymous holds himself perfectly still, though Emmy doesn't seem to notice that he isn't exactly returning her ardor. It goes on so long that I finally drop my gaze to my hands on the table. When I can bring myself to look up again, Hieronymous has disengaged his person, and is striding to the door to the hallway, Emmy looking after him forlornly. When he's gone, Emmy moves to follow, but I quickly stand to stop her.

"Hey," I say, grabbing her shoulders and gently steering her back towards the kitchen table, "will you sit with me for a sec?" I have her in the chair before she can protest, then sit facing her. I don't have to be told to know what's coming - the memory spell that Hieronymous will cast to ensure that Emmy doesn't remember any of our conversation.

When the spell comes, I can't feel it, but I can see it. Emmy's eyes lose focus, then gradually regain it.

When they go clear, I say "Emmy?"

"Hmm?" Emmy says. Then she shakes herself a little. "Oh," she says. "Sorry. I spaced out a little. What did you want to ask me about?"

Even though I was expecting it, the sudden change in Emmy from despondent to cheerful is disconcerting. "Uh - Damien, I guess," I say.

"Damien?" she says. Then her face falls. "He's-" she says, then stops. She blinks once, twice. "Not dead," she says, and her voice fills with awe at the pronouncement.

"What?" I ask.

"He's not dead!" she says, exuberant. She claps her hands together, bouncing in her chair.

"How do you know?" I ask.

"I don't know how I know, I just _know_!" she says, her face lit from within. "He's alive, and I'm going to find him!"

"Would you like a slice of cake first?" says a voice from the corner. It's Kip - I'd forgotten he'd been standing there.

"Yes please!" sings Emmy, beaming up at him. Then she turns back to me. "Eliza, do you want cake?"

I glance back to Kip, and he stares back at me, his face stony. Suddenly I remember the terms of our deal - now that we've spoken to Emmy, we're to leave the house of our own free will. I start in sudden panic, wondering whether Kip will toss us out now, but he speaks up.

"I think Eliza wants to go to bed," says Kip. "She and her… husband… have a journey ahead of them tomorrow."

I'm dismayed at Kip's flat tone of voice, devoid of all the friendliness it had held the night before. "Kip's right," I say, "I - I have to go to bed. Hope you like the cake." And with that, I race out of the kitchen, through the foyer, and up the stairs as fast as I can go.


	26. Chapter 26

When I get to the bedroom, Hieronymous is already there, scrubbing his face in the bathroom sink. He looks up at me briefly as I enter, flipping one lock of wet black hair away from his face.

"I forgot - I can't stand glamors," he mutters at me, scrubbing at his face again. "It's like wearing a wetsuit that someone else has gotten wet first."

I watch him, silent, as he towels off. He tosses his hair back, then walks out of the bathroom, to pace around the bed. "Not bad, was it?" he asks me, the ghost of a smile on his face.

"I thought it was clever," I say, my words coming out slow in contrast to his rapid snapping. "I wouldn't have thought of it, magicking myself to look like Damien."

"I didn't think of it until the last moment," he says. "But you told me that he's what she remembers, so with him in the picture - so to speak - we might at least learn something new. And we certainly did learn," he says, talking not so much to me now as to himself. He continues to pace, rubbing his mouth with one hand.

He goes on in silence for a time, and I can't bring myself to do anything but watch, unmoving. Finally, he bursts "I want to see that book."

"What book?" I ask, my voice so dull it's hardly even a question.

"I know the book she meant - it's the most comprehensive treatise on demons ever written. I remember she had it out - I had to re-shelve it," he says, still pacing. "It might allow us to elucidate what she meant by - are you all right?"

I glance up. Hieronymous has stopped pacing, and is now staring at me.

"Sure," I say. "Fine."

Hieronymous cocks an eyebrow at me, then smirks. "Are you jealous?" he asks.

I look up, startled. I want desperately to say no, but somehow I can't bring myself to do it. "Yes," I say, a quick little bark of a word. "You let her _kiss_ you."

Hieronymous considers me in silence, then says "Eliza, I thought we understood one another."

He sounds almost disappointed in me, and I feel my face go hot with shame. He's right - throughout this entire strange adventure, he hasn't given me any indication that he wanted to renegotiate the terms of the truce we'd come to two months before.

When I don't say anything, Hieronymous continues. "As for Miss King, it was a necessary measure for the investigation. I think you can appreciate that."

"What we did to Emmy just now," I say, "It wasn't very nice, was it?"

Hieronymous snorts derisively. "I'm sure you've determined by now that I'm not a very nice person."

He's joking, but I suddenly don't find it very funny. "Yeah," I snap. "I kind of got that from the whole 'I don't care whether your mother lives or dies' thing."

Hieronymous goes silent again, and I cringe inwardly, waiting for him to snap, or to yell, or to anything, really. What I don't expect is for him to sit on the bed, rub his hands together, and stare pensively at his fingers.

"I hope you can appreciate how terrified I was upon finding Miss King in that library," he says.

I don't know how to respond. Stoic Hieronymous admitting to having been terrified, even briefly, causes a certain cognitive dissonance in my head.

"Miss King's mother - whether sick or no - was not my responsibility," he continues. "Miss King herself, on the other hand - she was. And I'd found her leafing through spells which, had she attempted even the least of them, would have-" he pauses, running his hand over his mouth again. "Well. You've seen what happens when one loses control over the magical energies one is attempting to harness."

I certainly have, and gotten them splattered all over me in the form of my late father-in-law's liquified internal organs. I clench my mouth tighter.

"I would have said anything - done _anything_ \- to keep that from happening to Miss King. Do you understand?"

I consider it, not saying anything for a minute. Then I walk toward the bed and sit next to him, looking at my own hands in my lap. "I don't blame you for what happened to her," I say. "I guess I'm just starting to realize that I'm not a very nice person either."

"It is," Hieronymous says, "a difficult conclusion to make, and one more difficult still to acknowledge. Once done, however, I must admit that declining to follow the societal standards of kindness is rather liberating."

I smile, in spite of myself. "I'll have to keep that in mind."

"As for Miss King, we haven't done her any harm," Hieronymous says. "I performed the necessary memory spell so that she will not recall our conversation. I triple checked my form," he continues with a wry smile, "so I shall be very surprised indeed if anything went amiss."

"That's odd," I muse, half to myself.

"What?" Hieronymous says, his tone sharp.

"Well, I mean, you got it right," I say. "She didn't remember anything about talking with you, but she started talking about how Damien was alive instead of dead-"

"What are you saying?" Hieronymous asks.

"She didn't remember the conversation, just - before, she was convinced Damien was dead. Now she's sure he isn't. I don't really know what it means."

"Other than the fact that I'm not terribly clever with memory spells," mutters Hieronymous.

"You're not going to try again, are you?"

"No," Hieronymous says, to my relief. "As long as she does not remember the conversation, I don't think it's worth the risk to try again. I seem to have botched Miss King's psyche enough already," he adds with a grimace.

I shake my head. "I told you, I don't think what happened to Emmy is your f-"

I'm interrupted as Hieronymous stands abruptly. "Well," he says, voice brisk, "it seems we have rather a long day ahead of us tomorrow. You ought to get some rest."

"Where are you going?" I ask, in sudden alarm.

"To find other accommodations, obviously," he says, voice acerbic.

"Please don't," I say, and it comes out in a half whisper.

Hieronymous looks back at me, looking half exasperated.

"I-I mean," I stammer, "Kip's not too happy with either of us right now so I don't think we should aggravate him by asking for a new room."

"I hadn't intended to ask him," Hieronymous says, but he doesn't leave the room.

"And anyway," I say, "I don't want to stay here by myself."

Hieronymous sighs, and I interrupt him before he can say anything. "I know! I know we said we weren't going to - that, but it's not what I mean. I mean - we're both grown ups, right? We can stay in a room together without - _you_ know." A flash of heat in my cheeks, and I can't bring myself to look Hieronymous in the eye.

"That does not mean it is appropriate," Hieronymous says.

I hiss in a breath, then decide I'm desperate enough to say anything to keep him in this room - even the truth. "When they put me in that jail," I say, "they put me in there by myself. I didn't see anyone, I couldn't talk to anyone - I thought they were going to leave me there for - I don't know. Ever?" My voice rises, tremulous, and I have to take several deep breaths to keep from crying. "Going to sleep by myself - I keep thinking I'm back there, not knowing if I'll see anyone ever again. The only way I could sleep last night is being next to you, knowing you were there." My hands twist the fabric of my skirt, getting it damp with sweat. "I know it's not appropriate but I'm your wife, and you've already bent the rules for me once. And anyway, we slept together last night and nothing happened. I mean literally slept," I add hastily.

Hieronymous is looking at me strangely, and it's all I can do not to duck my head and tell him to go find his own room, that it isn't a big deal.

"They kept you isolated?" he asks. "For all that time? A full month?"

"Well - I mean, yeah," I say. "I don't know what they do with other prisoners, but-"

"Solitary confinement is generally considered a form of torture, did you know that?" he interrupts.

"I can believe it," I say, more sardonically than sincerely. Thinking of myself as having been tortured - especially now that I'm here in a warm house with a full stomach - feels strange, as though it was someone else who had experienced it, and had just transferred her memories to me.

"I'm not surprised you are having night terrors," he continues. "I am only sorry I did not notice it before."

"Well to be fair, you were out cold, pretty much," I say, increasingly uncomfortable.

"Would it really help?" he asks. "For me to stay here?"

I open my mouth, but my voice seems to stick in my throat. I know what I _ought_ to say, of course - that he should go on, find his own room, whatever makes him comfortable. But every time I try to say it, my throat closes up.

"Uh," is what finally comes out. "Kind… of?"

Hieronymous raises his hands in a gesture of resignation. "Then I'll stay," he says.

"Really?" I say, unnerved by how easily I've just won that battle.

Hieronymous doesn't answer, but disappears into the bathroom again. There's nothing for me to do but change back into my white prison pajamas, which I find folded and mended in an otherwise empty chest of drawers against a wall of the room. They're even devoid of scorch marks, so I have to assume that this is Emmy's doing. I wonder when she was able to come into the room without Hieronymous being there.

Hieronymous relinquishes the bathroom dressed in a long black bathrobe, and I duck in to clean myself up. By the time I finish, I find Hieronymous tucked into bed, reading his enormous legal book. He raises his eyebrows at me. "I do expect you to sleep," he says.

"Sure," I reply, and crawl under the covers on my side, keeping as close as I can to the edge of the mattress. Once I get myself settled, and as comfortable as I can manage, I say "So - um."

"Yes?" Hieronymous says, turning a page.

"You said we had a long day tomorrow? What are we doing besides moving out?"

"Breaking into Professor Potsdam's private library, of course," he says.

I forget that I'm supposed to be lying still on the edge of the bed. I sit up, and stare open-mouthed at my husband. "What? Why?"

He turns another page, not looking at me. "I told you I wanted to look at that book that Miss King mentioned."

"You think it might help get my magic back?" I ask.

"Possibly," Hieronymous says, offhand, and it's only with the greatest possible restraint that I prevent myself from throwing myself on him in sheer gratitude.

"You mean it?" I say, beaming.

"I am not making any promises," he says, still engrossed in his book. "But you indicated earlier that investigation of the slightest possibility for your recovery is better than sitting about in safehouses doing nothing, and I suppose I'm inclined to agree."

My entire body seems to be tingling with relief. _Everything's going to be all right now_ , I think. _He'll think of something and I'll get my magic back, and then we can rescue Ahmed, and save Professor Potsdam..._ My thoughts seem to slow as it dawns on me what a long shot all of this is. _And how are you going to manage all of that without getting caught, thrown back in jail - or worse?_

As though echoing this new, more cynical thought, Hieronymous shuts his book and turns to me. "I should warn you not to get your hopes up," he says. "We are only going on a reconnaissance expedition, and may find no useful information at all. If that occurs, we shall be in a difficult position. I'm afraid that we've burned our bridges here, and that the next closest safehouse may be quite a distance away. We may have to improvise - and in consequence, put ourselves at a very serious risk."

"Oh," is all I can say. I'm not sure what to think of this, honestly, but I'm not sure we have any other choice.

"Would you prefer not to risk it?" he asks then, a serious tone to his voice. "Making unilateral decisions is a rather difficult habit to break - but if you have any reservations, Eliza-"

"No," I interrupt. "I agree with you - it's risky but better than sitting around doing nothing." I settle my head into my pillow, facing him with a shy smile. "What made you change your mind?"

"Much as I hate to admit it, you were right," he says, once again not quite looking me in the eye. "Like it or not, we are a sort of team, and as such, it would be foolish of me to deny that you have certain talents that I lack - ones that may come in useful if we are to extract ourselves from this situation with both memories and magical talent intact. If keeping you in this team means investigating the means of restoring your magic, so be it."

"What talents?" I ask, and when Hieronymous gives me a waspish look, I say "come on - you compliment me about once a quarter, I'm not letting you get away with half-assing this one."

"You seem to have a talent for interacting with people," he says. "I shouldn't have been able to extract as much information from Miss King as you managed to do, glamor or no."

I shrug. "I was just being friendly," I say.

"Those to whom such things come naturally," Hieronymous replies, "are often entirely unaware of just how difficult that sort of thing is for whom it does not."

"Oh," I say. "Well, it feels hard for me too, sometimes."

"Then you understand what I mean," Hieronymous says, and at that moment, I do. It's not a talent for being nice to people, or making friends. It's a talent for _using_ people to get what I want. Suddenly Hieronymous' compliment doesn't seem like much of a compliment any more, and I hide my face in my pillow to conceal my disappointment.

"Ready to get some sleep?" Hieronymous asks, evidently misinterpreting my movement.

"Can you leave the light spell up?" I ask half into my pillow. "Just dim, so I can see where I am if I wake up?"

"All right," Hieronymous says, and the light dims, but doesn't go out.

I settle myself in a way that feels comfortable, but just like last night, the thoughts whizzing through my head make it difficult to sleep. I think about Emmy, her iris-less eyes wide as she declared that she would find her long lost demon boyfriend wherever he was. I think of Kip and how furious he'd looked after the interrogation we'd held. Am I really Emmy's friend? Or was she just a way for me to get what I want?

I think about Ahmed, trapped somewhere on the Otherworld with only Damien for company. Did I just use him so I wouldn't feel lonely?

I think about the rest of the students at Iris - Ellen and Virginia, Suki and Pastel, Minnie and Jacob, Orrin and Manuel. Everyone I'd asked to vote for me at school elections, everyone I'd asked to express their fears through me. Was I really going to do something for them, or was I just using them so I wouldn't have to feel like I was facing Professor Terrec alone?

The thoughts churn through my head, cycling over and over, rendering sleep impossible. Finally, I give up, opening my eyes. Even though I know from the even breathing of my husband next to me that I'm in the safe house, it's still a relief to see the dimly lit curtains and dusty furniture instead of the bright white prison cell.

"Hieronymous?" I whisper. When he doesn't answer, I try again, a little louder. "Hieronymous?"

"Mmm?"

"Are you awake?"

"Mmm."

I risk a glance at him and watch his eyelids flutter slightly in the dim light of the spell.

_Do you think I'm using you?_

"Do - do you want to hear something funny?"

"Mm?"

_I think I just use people to get the things I want._

"You know what spell I miss being able to cast most? It's track scent."

He doesn't respond.

_Tell me you don't think that about me._

"You want to know why?"

"Mm."

"Well - every time I track someone, they smell different. Like, they smell like the things I like most about them."

No response, and his eyelids don't move.

"Like Ahmed. He smelled like tea and toast, because every time I thought no one wanted to hang out with me, he'd show up and we'd have breakfast together. And Virginia smelled like freshly mown grass and cookies. Ellen smelled like pencils and flowery perfume."

"Mmm."

"And - well," I say, "remember that exam when we had to figure out which wall was the exit? I cast track scent and followed you. You smell like - like books. And that was the first time I thought that maybe I liked you. I mean, _like_ liked you, you know?"

He doesn't respond, but I see his eyelids flutter again slightly.

"I mean - have you ever noticed that? About anyone? Like, cast track scent and realized that you liked the way they - they smelled?"

A long silence then. I hold my breath and stay still, watching Hieronymous' pale face in the dim light of the spell. For a minute, I think he's really fallen asleep, until his mouth parts and he says "oboe reeds."

"Uh-" I start, confused.

"They do have a smell. Subtle. Freshly cut cane, beeswax, cork. That sort of metallic tang from the knife when you scrape them." He sighs. "Every time I cast track scent, she smelled like… oboe reeds. She'd always make them by hand - otherwise she said they didn't sound the same."

I realize then who he's talking about, and anything I might have said in response is caught in my throat.

"I used to try to take the piss," he murmurs, "said she could make twelve reeds by magic in the time it took her to carve one. She'd just laugh at me and say 'magic can't do everything, Hieronymous.'"

He takes in one deep breath, and then his face crumples. He turns away, and I don't stop him. Instead I roll away from him and huddle at the edge of the bed, both ashamed of my cowardice and unable to watch him miss her.


	27. Chapter 27

In the morning, I wake to the sound of Hieronymous moving around the room. For a moment I keep my eyes shut, hoping that I might fall back to sleep, but then his voice sounds.

"Eliza, I know you're awake. Get up."

I sigh and turn lazily under the covers, a pleasant torpor weighing down my joints. "What's the hurry?" I ask.

"As I'm sure you will recall, we have agreed to leave the premises," Hieronymous replies, and I sit bolt upright, forgetting my fatigue, and remembering the events of the day before.

"I wouldn't count on breakfast," Hieronymous continues, "so here." He tosses something at me, which I barely manage to catch. It's the packet of Cool Ranch Doritos. I ponder it for a moment before tearing it open.

Once I've finished shaking the last Dorito crumbs from the bag into my mouth, I gather the set of clothes Emmy gave me yesterday and dash into the bathroom. I wash myself hurriedly, not waiting for the bathtub to fill, but splashing water from the faucet onto myself as it's running. When I'm fully dried and dressed, I emerge into the bedroom to find Hieronymous sitting on the bed - which he seems to have made - waiting for me.

"Ready to go?" he says.

"I guess," I reply before suddenly changing my mind. "No," I say and dash out the bedroom door.

I race up the attic stairs and knock on Emmy's door, holding my breath in the hope that she's in her room and not wandering around somewhere. to my relief, she opens the door, rubbing her eyes and wearing her black kimono. "Is it breakfast yet?" she asks with a yawn. When she registers that it's me, she grins. "I hope it's pancakes!"

"Actually I can't have breakfast with you," I say. "I'm here - well, I need you to do something for me." My stomach twists at my own words. Not only did I trick Emmy into thinking her long ago boyfriend had come back to her, not only have I messed with her memory - now I'm asking her for favors as though it never had happened. "I can't give you anything in return right now," I continue, hesitant, "and you've done so much for me already-"

"Sure!" Emmy interrupts brightly.

"Uh," I say, "You don't even know what I'm going to ask you yet."

"That's okay," says Emmy. "You're my friend! You wouldn't ask me for anything weird."

This just makes me feel worse, but Emmy's cheer doesn't flag when I explain what I need her to do. "Easy!" she pronounces, and we both head down the stairs to the second floor.

I enter the bedroom, and Emmy stays just outside of it. "Okay," I tell Hieronymous as I move to stand next to him, "hold still."

I don't feel the wave of Emmy's magic flow over us, but Hieronymous must, because he blinks and asks me "what was that?" after a few seconds.

"Temporary ward," I explain. "Emmy's specialty. Twelve hours of anti-council protection."

"Just make sure not to teleport while it's up," Emmy calls out from the hallway. "You can't teleport wards."

I hadn't counted on this, but Hieronymous seems to take it in stride. "Fortunately, we are not so far from Iris Academy that we cannot effect another means of transportation," he says. "Are you ready to go?"

"I'll meet you out front," I say, and head into the hallway.

Emmy and I go downstairs to the mud room outside of the kitchen. I glance nervously around for signs of Kip, but he doesn't make an appearance.

"Okay, seriously last favor," I say on reaching the mud room. "Can I borrow these boots?"

"Sure," Emmy says, and I tug on the olive green boots I'd worn out yesterday. "I don't think they really belong to anyone," she muses as she casts a spell to fit them to my feet. "Maybe someone who used to be here who isn't any more." She pauses, and blinks her black eyes at me. "Are you going to come back? To visit?"

I wince a little. "Probably not," I say. "I don't think Kip will let me back in."

Emmy just blinks again, as though she doesn't quite understand what I'm saying. So instead of trying to explain, I impulsively reach out and hug her around her slim shoulders. "Emmy," I say, "I'm really sorry."

Emmy giggles, but hugs me back. "Sorry for what?"

"Just - all of it," I say. "If you don't get it, tell Kip for me, okay?

"Sure!" Emmy says, pulling back and giving me her childish grin.

"Tell you what," I say. "If I see Damien, I'm going to tell him you're on your way."

Emmy gives a delighted giggle at this, and her pale face flushes.

"Okay," I say. "See you." And I walk out the door to the backyard before I can tear up.

I walk around the outside of the house to the front. Already it seems imposing, closing me out, sealed to me forever. As I round the front corner, I see Hieronymous waiting for me by the door, and I hasten my steps to meet him.

"All right?" he says as I approach.

"Yeah," I breathe. "Let's go."

The two of us wind our way down the hill in silence, crossing the safehouse's wards and trudging along the highway. The morning breeze is bracingly cold on my face, and the road seems to stretch itself interminably before us. Hieronymous walks lightly, swinging his suitcase a little, striding with purpose. I don't ask where we're going or how long we're going to walk. I begin to find a comforting rhythm in our steps, in the motion of going forward without really understanding the destination. It certainly soothes the gnawing anxiety I feel in my stomach when I think of how exposed we are - how there's only one thin layer of magical protection between us and the powers that are surely searching for us even now.

I don't realize that we're on our way to the convenience store where I'd been yesterday until it's nearly on top of us, and my surprise increases exponentially when I see Hieronymous turn to walk into the parking lot.

"What, you want more Doritos?" I ask, jogging after him.

"No," he says blandly as I catch up. "I want a car."

I look around the parking lot, which is completely empty. "I think we might have better luck at the outlet mall," I start, but Hieronymous only smirks at me.

"Wait here," he says, so I wait as Hieronymous enters the store, jingling the bell over its door. Within a very few minutes, he exits again, with a large keyring in his hands. I follow him to the back of the store to find an enormous, and enormously old, pickup truck.

"Whose is this?" I ask.

"The proprietor's," Hieronymous replies. He's beginning a ten hour shift, so I managed to persuade him to allow us to borrow his car for a few hours."

I'm certain Hieronymous used more than simple persuasion to achieve this purpose, but I don't say anything. The look I give my husband must speak volumes, though, because he speaks again. "He won't miss it, and I will teleport it back to him when we are finished."

"Well," I say, "okay." I still feel bad about stealing the snacks from yesterday, and to compound that with "borrowing" the poor man's car seems like a step on the wrong direction. Still, I'm not sure what else there is to do, so I allow Hieronymous to unlock the passenger side door for me, open it, and help me into the seat, which is perilously high off the ground.

Hieronymous crosses to the driver's side, opens the door, and stops before getting in. He gives the driver's well a puzzled look.

"What?" I ask.

"There appears to be an excess of brake pedals," he mutters.

I lean over to look myself and realize that Hieronymous is staring at the truck's clutch. I press my lips together as hard as I can, but can't hold back a snort of laughter. Hieronymous looks up at me, irritated, and I give him a helpless shrug. "Don't tell me you can't drive manual," I say, struggling against the giggles that are threatening to foam out of me.

"In the course of my life, I have had very little occasion to drive at all," he responds. He looks back down at the pedals. "Perhaps the outlet mall-"

I snort again, and scoot myself into the driver's seat. "Give me the keys and get in," I say.

There's a long pause as Hieronymous weighs the order, but he relinquishes the keys without further argument, sliding into the passenger seat as I adjust my perch, then the mirrors, and turn the key in the ignition.

"My grandmother, may her soul rest in peace," I say, as I ease on the clutch and shift into reverse to back out of the parking space, "always told my mom 'n me that a lady needs to know how to do two things to get by in life - cross her legs at the ankles, and drive a stick shift."

As I drive out of the parking lot and turn onto the highway, I glance at Hieronymous, who is watching my machinations of the clutch and shift with interest. "If we get out of this?" I add, "I could teach you. If you wanted."

"To cross my legs at the ankles?" he snaps, and turns to stare out the window. I don't respond, and concentrate on getting used to handling the truck as we accelerate down the road. It's not bad, in fact - much less temperamental than the ancient Volkswagon Rabbit that I drove to and from work all summer - but also much bulkier than I'm used to, considering the truck bed. I'll have to watch it on the turns, but I think it'll get us there. I shift into fourth.

"I'd like to learn," Hieronymous says, and I dart my gaze back to him. He's leaning against the window, still looking out, chin propped in one hand, so he doesn't see it when I smile at his idea of an apology.

"Sure," I say, and turn my attention back to the road.

Hieronymous navigates for me, and I drive the over three-hour trip toward Iris Academy. I begin to recognize our route as we go closer, and Hieronymous stops giving me directions, but instead lapses into silence, still staring out of his window.

"So," I say, "What do we do when we get there? I mean, we can't go straight to the school."

"No," he says. "It's possible we could attempt to go in using glamors, but those will only disguise so much. It's clumsy. We have no way of knowing what will and won't attract attention - particularly what will and will not trigger the wards set around the school."

"How do those things work, anyway?" I ask. "I've been going off campus to run every morning all this fall, and I didn't trigger anything. Not that I know of, anyway," I add.

"No, students do not trigger any alarms," he replies. "But anyone non-magical attempting to enter the school's grounds certainly would."

"Really?" I ask. "I guess it makes sense, but…" I trail off, thinking. " _Every_ person allowed on the grounds is magical? There isn't anyone who can come and go? Like, what about when my parents came to drop me off?"

"Wards are relaxed on the first day of school so as not to arouse suspicion," Hieronymous replies. "They are also relaxed for school plays in order to allow townsfolk and families to attend."

"Okay, but what about… food deliveries? Supplies, that stuff? I mean-" I chew on my lip a bit. "I don't want to be insulting to the drivers, but if someone's a wizard, I don't think they're going to choose delivery driver as a profession."

"I hadn't considered that," Hieronymous says slowly. "No, supply deliveries are not made by wizards. I suppose they either do not trigger the wards or are scheduled so that when they arrive, the disturbance is expected." He shrugs a bit, a movement I catch out of the corner of my eye. "Campus security was not under my purview during my tenure - student behavior was."

I barely hear this last statement - my mind is churning. Scheduled deliveries - scheduled deliveries-

"What day is it?" I ask.

A brief pause, then Hieronymous says "the third, why?"

"No, I mean day of the week."

"Saturday," he says. "Why?"

Something invisible seems to tug at the corners of my mouth. "I think I have an idea," I say.

Another half an hour takes us into town, and I pull the truck into the parking lot that surrounds the local shopping mall. "Okay," I say, once I've set the parking brake. "Ready to go shopping?"

Hieronymous gives a derisive snort, and I turn to grin at him. When I do, I blink in surprise. Hieronymous has vanished, and in his face is a burly, red-faced man wearing a flannel work shirt, with a wiry blond beard. It's the proprietor of the convenience store near the safehouse, and just seeing him makes me feel guilty for my shoplifting venture all over again. But then, he speaks in my husband's voice. "If I'm forced to borrow his truck, I suppose it isn't too much to ask to borrow his face as well," he says, and I relax.

"What about me?" I say, and he smirks.

"Take a look," he replies. I reach up and turn the rear view mirror, and start back when I see my reflection. It shows a rough-faced girl with long pigtails, both the braids and the face the same putty-like color. I frown, but despite my disappointment that my husband didn't make me pretty, I have to admit that my glamored appearance is so bland, there's no one in the shopping mall that would bother to give me a second glance.

We cross the parking lot and into the mall proper, me trying to get used to the way my long black skirt feels as it brushes my ankles, and the dissonance of how it looks like a pair of faded jeans. It's nearly noon, so when we approach the mall's food court, the tables have started to fill.

I'm ravenous after driving all morning, so I'm immensely grateful when Hieronymous walks to one of the counters and buys each of us a grilled chicken salad. We take the food to a corner table and sit, surveying the crowd eating their lunches.

"What's going on?" I mutter after my first glance. "I don't see anybody from school!"

Hieronymous cocks an eyebrow at me - an odd sight coming from his convenience store clerk's ruddy face. "Really?" he says. "Try again. Look closely."

I munch a piece of tomato, and look around again, focusing my attention on each table before moving on to the next. There's a family of four eating Chinese food and laughing, a couple sitting on one side of the same booth sharing a small sized pizza, some random girl with a plate covered in pastries-

My eyes widen. "Virginia!" I say, then panic - did I speak too loud? No one seems to have heard me, so I look again, closely. Sure enough, it's Virginia, sitting with Pastel in front of a huge spread of pastries from the new coffee shop. My eyes had completely slid over them on my first survey of the food court - it was only when I begun to concentrate that I saw Virginia's riot of red curls and Pastel's pink hair. Squint as I might, though, I can't seem to see Pastel's wings, and it's only with the greatest effort that I manage to register the pair's school uniforms.

"It's your family's spell, isn't it?" I say under my breath. "The one that makes everything magic seem boring, right?"

"A variation of it," Hieronymous mutters. "It is rather effective."

I stare, watching Virginia stuff her mouth with chunks of blueberry muffin. Pastel is sipping green juice from a plastic bottle, averting her eyes from the array of carbohydrates on display before her. _I could be sitting with them_ , I think. _I_ should _be sitting with them_. Being disguised from them, and having them be disguised from me, makes me feel incredibly lonely. I work on my salad in silence, watching.

Slowly, however, I begin to realize that something about Pastel and Virginia isn't exactly right. Virginia's voice, usually strident enough to fill the whole food court, is hushed so that I can't hear what she's saying. She doesn't seem to be enjoying her pastries, either - she's just tearing them to pieces and shoving them into her mouth, almost robotically.

Pastel, too, isn't acting like her usual self. She's hunched over the table instead of tossing her beautiful hair. She glances around her, but it's not to make sure that everyone is looking at her. Instead, she looks furtive, as though she's trying to make sure she isn't seen.

When the two of them finally finish their food and get up, I wait for a moment, and then stand to follow, but I'm cut short by a hand grasping my sleeve. I look back to see Hieronymous, his ruddy cashier's face suddenly drawn. "I don't think that is advisable," he hisses.

I jerk my sleeve out from his grasp. "Something's up," I mutter back, "and I want to know what it is." I dash after my classmates, and after a few seconds, hear Hieronymous close at my heels.

I track Virginia and Pastel as they move down one of the mall's corridors. They look behind and around them, but I manage to duck behind other shoppers or pretend to look in store windows when they do. As they reach the end of the corridor, I realize that they're about to enter the magic store - but I can't seem to see where the store itself is. I try to walk toward where I think the store used to be, but when I try to turn into the storefront, I suddenly find myself facing the exit.

Hieronymous grabs my elbow and hisses "here," before pulling me into what looks like a pane of plate glass. Then suddenly I'm surrounded by the familiar but arcane wares, and see the hem of an Iris Academy school uniform as the wearer slips behind the curtain that separates the front of the store from the back.

I make to follow them but am suddenly stopped by the store owner, squinting at me behind his half moon glasses, a furious scowl on his face. "Employee's onl-" he starts, but is stopped mid-word by Hieronymous, who steps between us and tosses a spell - one handed - into the man's face. I gawk in amazement as the man's eyes go blank, he murmurs "excuse me madam," to Hieronymous, then wanders to a corner and begins an animated discussion with the astrolabe on the nearest shelf.

"Come on," says Hieronymous, and we both dash through the curtain.

Behind it is a smallish storeroom, full of boxes that are piled haphazardly against the walls. They're stuffed with strange looking magical books and other accoutrements which manage to look both ordinary and esoteric. There's even an ironing board draped with sets of detachable fairy wings, which are presumably awaiting to be pressed and set out to tempt Iris Academy customers. But by far the biggest shock is what's in the middle of the room.

The boxes, it seems, have been shoved against the walls to make room for a circle of folding chairs. And in those chairs sit my classmates. I look, stunned, from one face to the other. Minnie and Jacob are there, and Donald, with Logan - but not Luke - Pheiffer. I see Virginia and Pastel about to take two seats near Ellen, who in turn is sitting next to Manuel. Beside him is Orrin, looking disheveled as ever, and next to Orrin is Suki, with Chester poking out of her uniform's pocket.

All of their eyes are fixed on me, and all of those eyes look both terrified and furious.

"Who are you?" snaps Jacob, rising to his feet and standing in front of Minnie in a protective sort of way. "You can't be here!"

I see both Donald and Pastel starting up defensive spells, and I whip around gasping. Hieronymous, however, is faster at casting than his former students, and I watch as he completes his own spell, releasing the magic into the air. My jeans transform back into a skirt, work shirt back into sweater, braids back into bob. Donald and Pastel stop mid-spell, their mouths agape.

For a long time, nobody moves until I raise my hand and wave at my friends. "Hey, you guys." I want to smile, but I'm too scared to do anything but wince at them.

And to my shock and relief, it's Ellen who springs to her feet and runs to me, nearly knocking me over when she throws her arms around my shoulders in an enormous hug. "Oh my God!" she gasps in my ear. "Eliza!"

Tears spring to my eyes, and the only thing I can do is hug Ellen back with all my strength.


	28. Chapter 28

"What are you guys doing back here?" I gasp once Ellen stops trying to squeeze all the air from my lungs.

Ellen gives a shrug, and manages to look embarrassed and pleased all at once. "We're a conspiracy, of course."

"We're the FEMS!" adds Suki happily.

"The femmes?" I ask.

"It's the Free Eliza Moon Society," Ellen explains, and I gawk in wonder.

"You made an entire conspiracy just for me?" I ask.

"Well, no," Jacob says, frowning at Ellen. " _Some_ of us thought we should be the Iris Academy Liberation Front."

"That's a _terrible_ acronym!" Ellen snaps back.

"We're _not_ getting into the acronym argument again!" shouts Donald over the rest of the group, which for a moment appeared to be on the verge of an epic multi-party bicker fest. "We had a vote, and we're the FEMS."

Ellen gives Donald a grateful smile over her shoulder, and the tips of his ears go aubergine.

"After you got - well, after you left, things got really weird," Ellen explains. "Professor Terrec told the entire school that you'd nearly killed Professor Potsdam, as like, a rebellion thing, and he just took the entire place over. Well, we knew you'd never hurt Professor Potsdam, so right away we knew something was going on."

The faces behind Ellen have gone grim and serious. I glance from one to the other - even Suki has lost her spacey expression.

"He's really been cracking down on us," Ellen continues, "ramping up the exam difficulties and giving huge demerits to anyone that fails. A lot of the wildseeds got expelled after the last one. And then he made this rule that student clubs aren't allowed to meet unless there's a teacher present, to supervise. And no more than two students can hang out together on mall trips - he sends teachers to watch and break up the groups if there's more. He was threatening to not let us go altogether, but Mr. Abelard - who owns the magic shop - put his foot down. I guess he's pretty influential around the magical leaders in the area since he's been selling stuff to them as students for ages." Ellen shrugs.

I shift uncomfortably, thinking of poor Mr. Abelard talking to the astrolabe on the shelf outside - I hope Hieronymous sets him back to rights soon. "So that's why he let you meet back here? Away from the teachers?"

"Ellen's the one who thought of asking him," Donald says, and Ellen blushes hot pink.

"I just noticed that he was getting annoyed at the limits on mall trips," Ellen explains. "He was losing business, with only two students being able to shop here at a time. But," she bursts, "what about you? Jacob told us you were going to get put on trial!"

"I heard my dads talking about it over Thanksgiving," Jacob interjects. "Papa was pretty upset - Dad holed himself up in his office over the holiday and barely came out to eat Thanksgiving dinner. They had a huge fight, and that's when Dad told him that he was working on your trial." Jacob shrugs, looking at the group nervously. "It was a huge breach of the council confidentiality rules for him to even tell Papa, if they found out I heard them talking about it-" he shakes his head briskly. "Just don't tell anyone," he says, speaking more to the rest of the group than to me.

"Your dad was really amazing," I say. "He stood up for me when no one else would." Jacob gives me a shy, half embarrassed smile at that, then quickly turns back to Minnie, who looks from him to me anxiously.

"But what happened?" Minnie asks. "Did they acquit you or-"

"Well, no," I say. "I got convicted, so my defense attorney kidnapped me."

Everyone else blinks at me as they take this in.

"Is that him?" says Virginia, who had been sitting and glaring at me in silence through this entire exchange. Now she's pointing at something over my shoulder, and I realize that the something is Hieronymous. I glance at him in time to see him step forward from where he was standing near the door curtain, still in his convenience store clerk glamor.

"Heya Grabby," Virginia says dourly.

Hieronymous drops the glamor. "Miss Danson," he says, his voice as stony as Virginia's. "Good afternoon." He ignores the squeaks of surprise that the rest of my classmates make

"How did you know it was him?" Logan says.

"Easy," Virginia replies. "Any time Eliza disappears without explanation, she's with Grabby, right?"

I frown, alarmed. "Virginia, I was in _jail_ ," I say, but she just scowls at me.

"I don't think this is very productive," Ellen says, glancing nervously between Virginia and me.

"You're _defending_ her?" Virginia says. "After what she did?"

Now it's my turn to gawk at my roommates, and I suddenly remember that neither of them had been speaking to me since the first month of school. "Fine," I say, trying to keep my voice from trembling with rage. "One of you had better tell me what I'm supposed to have done, because apparently I'm too stupid to figure it out myself."

Virginia stands, arms folded across her chest, looking coolly at me "You lied to us," she says.

For a moment, I'm too surprised to say anything - I just stare at Virginia until I manage a stuttery "w-what?"

"I called your house," she says, "to invite you to stay at my parents' with me and Ellen for the first week of August, and your parents told me you were on some school trip, replacing Minnie because she was sick? Well I'd just talked to Minnie, and she wasn't sick. You'd just disappeared on us. It wasn't til the start of the school year that Ellen finally told me you'd gone to England to see your _husband_."

The amount of disgust Virginia puts into the word "husband" makes my stomach squirm. I turn to Ellen, whose face has gone from hot pink to a furious brick red.

"Professor Potsdam told me," she says, not quite meeting my eyes. "When I said I was going to go stay at Virginia's, she said it was a good thing I was, because she was taking you to England to see Gra- Professor Grabiner. And that she hoped things were going to go well for you two considering the way you'd kissed each other on the night of the May ball."

I freeze in sheer horror - and then realize that none of the group of students around me looks even remotely surprised at this.

"So - what, you all _knew_?" I sputter. "You've all been gossiping about me behind my back?"

Ellen looks up, stricken. "Wha- _no_!" she yelps. "I only told Virginia!"

I look at Virginia, who shifts her eyes away and gives a hard little shrug. "I only told Pastel," she says.

I look at Pastel, whose wings are quivering. "I only told Minnie!" she says.

I look at Minnie who stares at me, eyes wide. "I only told Jake!"

I look at Jacob, who meets my eye and shrugs. "Don't look at me," he says. "I didn't know it was supposed to be some big secret."

I squeeze my eyes shut, unable to look my classmates in the eye. They'd known - all of them - all the stuff that I was trying to keep secret. That I thought was just between Hieronymous and me. And they'd known for the whole school year so far. Ellen might be right that I'd never hurt Professor Potsdam, but right now, I find myself harboring some serious thoughts on the subject. I take a deep breath. "I don't _believe_ you-"

"I don't believe _you_ ," interjects Virginia. "You're supposed to be our friend, but the only thing we can count on you to do is disappear on us and then lie about it. Even when Ellen asked you straight out where you'd been, you wouldn't tell us the truth!" She makes a disgusted, scoffing sound low in her throat. "You are a _liar_ , Eliza Moon, and I'm sick of it!"

All at once, Virginia's declaration sends me shooting back to last April, when everyone found out about my marriage - when my husband had threatened me, and when I'd been cowering in my room in sheer terror. Back then, I'd insisted that I was _not_ a liar, and I open my mouth now to say the same. But what comes out is a thin, quavery "I know."

This, at least, seems to surprise Virginia as much as it does me. She stares, mouth open as though she had been about to continue the argument, but that I'd stolen the words right out from under her.

"I know," I repeat, louder and more steadily. "I'm sorry. But - what else was I supposed to do? If I told you the truth, I betray his trust-" my shoulders tighten, and I can't bring myself to say Hieronymous' name. "And if I keep the secret, I betray yours? What kind of a choice is that?"

"So you picked him," Virginia says, still scowling.

"Virginia," says Minnie interjects, "he's her _husband_."

Virginia rounds on Minnie her eyes sparking. "Yeah, and she's in _high school_. And _he_ _'s_ her teacher. It's weird and creepy and probably illegal-"

"And it saved my life," I interject.

"That doesn't mean you have to go around _kissing_ him!" Virginia shouts.

"Virginia, _enough_ ," says a voice, loud and decisive, and it takes me a moment to realize that it's Ellen. I stare at her, bewildered - and so does Virginia.

"You know that I agree with you that this is weird and creepy and illegal," Ellen says, directing her words to Virginia. "But there's a point where we just have to let that go."

"Buh-" Virginia says, one burst of sound from her mouth that dies as soon as it exits her mouth.

"Sorry Eliza," Ellen says, ignoring Virginia's outburst and turning toward me instead. "I was really mad about you lying to us about this stuff. But-" and here she stops, chewing at her upper lip and looking at Hieronymous. "I guess - if it's a choice between Eliza with Professor Grabiner or no Eliza, I'm going to pick Eliza with Professor Grabiner."

I half smile, trying to thank Ellen with my eyes because I don't know how to say it with words. "I'm sorry too," is all I can say. "I didn't _want_ to lie about it."

We both turn to Virginia, and she's looking at the both of us though she's about one second away from bursting into tears - something I've never seen Virginia do.

"Fine," she says in a tight little voice. "You just - both of you - _fine_. You're both going to leave me alone, right? Just because I don't want the same stuff you want?"

"Virginia," I say, astonished. "I'm not going to leave! I'm trying to get my magic back so I can come back to school!"

This disclosure causes the entire group to switch their focus from Virginia to me in a hurry. "What do you man, 'get your magic back?'" asks Minnie in a shivery squeak of a voice.

"Did I skip the part where Professor Terrec de-magicked me in front of the entire council?" I try to make this disclosure sound lighthearted, but I only manage to sound strained.

The entire group bursts into astonished noise, everyone talking over each other at once and surging towards me _en masse_. Ellen reaches me first, looking aghast. "They wouldn't!" she says. "They _couldn_ _'t_ -"

"Professor Terrec's been doing this all year," I reply. "And anyway, he got my magic, but not my memories, so technically I'm not expelled yet… I think."

"But how are you going to get it back?" gasps Minnie, "before they-" she stops, looking as though she might not be able to continue. Jacob puts an arm around her shoulders, and it only mildly irritates me.

I glance back at Hieronymous again, but he's leaning against a stack of boxes, arms crossed and watching me. "Well," I say, "I guess there might be some information at Iris that might help me get my magic back. So we need a way to sneak in and take a look."

"I don't-" Jacob starts, but he's drowned out by a chorus of enthusiastic voices speaking over each other.

"How are you going to get in?" asks Donald, who manages to be louder than the buzz. Everyone quiets at the sound of his voice.

"Well, since the wards get triggered by someone non-magical going through them and getting onto school grounds," I say, "I need to go through with someone else who isn't magical, but who's expected."

Everyone else stares at me, blinking.

"The van driver?" I say. "He - or she - they aren't magic, are they? So if we just ride with you in the vans…"

Silence greets this suggestion, and I'm terrified that everyone already knows some loophole - the van drivers have a special exemption tailored just for them, or something else completely obvious.

"That's… kind of perfect," Jacob says, then looks around at the rest of the group. "Right?"

Everyone nods and starts talking again in agreement, and I let my breath hiss out of my lungs.

"Okay, so that's how you get in. What do you do so you don't get caught?" Virginia asks, and her voice - and eyes - are still hard.

"Well," I say, "maybe that's where you guys come in." And I raise my eyes, hopefully, at Donald.

We wait for the vans in a huddled cluster, me blinking in the afternoon sun, trying to quash my terror of being exposed in the middle of all these students. Not that anyone's likely to recognize me by sight, of course. Before leaving the confines of the magic shop's showroom, we'd all conferred over who Hieronymous and I should be disguised as. It would have to be someone who'd stayed at school, we'd decided, but who hadn't had detention. So now I'm in the form of a black haired junior girl, while Hieronymous is disguised as the senior musician with the green-grey hair and wire rimmed glasses. We stand apart from each other so as not to arouse further suspicion, but I can't help glancing behind me every once in a while, to see what he's doing. Mostly it's standing around and looking aloof.

When it's my turn to get into the van, I do so with commingled relief that I haven't been caught yet, and a tightening dread that I'm about to walk right into a nest of figurative scorpions. Still, there's some comfort that I'm able to board the van surrounded by my friends - Donald, Ellen and Virginia in front, Minnie, Pastel and Jacob behind.

When Virginia swings into one of the seats, I grab Ellen before she can do the same. "Hey," I say, "can I sit there?"

"Oh-" Ellen says, "I thought you'd want to sit next to-" she nods to where Hieronymous is stepping into the aisle.

"Not right now," I whisper. "Seriously - I wanna sit there."

Ellen shrugs, then sits down next to Donald in the seat behind Virginia. Donald gives me a startled look, then a grin.

I slide into the seat next to Virginia, keeping my head down as the rest of the students file into the van. Once it's filled, and we begin the drive to Iris Academy, I let out a cautious breath. I can't help glancing out the window to the parking spot where I'd parked the convenience store clerk's truck. But true to Hieronymous' word, it isn't there anymore - he must have teleported it back to its owner.

 _Well that_ _'s one less theft on my conscience, at least for today_ , I think as we pull out of the parking lot and onto the mountain road.

Virginia is looking determinately out of the window, intent on pretending that I'm not there. I tense up, running my hands down my skirt, still feeling the odd dissonance of feeling the skirt under my fingers but seeing an Iris Academy school uniform instead.

"So," I say, wondering where I could possibly begin. "Virginia."

"I don't want to talk," she snaps without looking at me.

"Okay," I sigh, "but if you're one of the ones helping sneak me into school, I'd feel a lot better if you just told me what you meant by me and Ellen leaving you."

Virginia squirms a bit in her seat, still looking out the window.

"I'm not going to leave," I say. "Not if I can help it, anyway."

Now Virginia rounds on me, scowling. " _Everyone_ leaves," she snaps. "Don't you think I know that? That's what you're _supposed_ to do. Everybody does it. They fall in love, they pair off - or whatever number of people they pick - and they start families together. Everyone does it! Everyone _wants_ to do it. Except me. And I'm gonna get left behind."

I open my mouth, then shut it again. I'd been about to tell her not to be silly, that everyone finds someone that they like eventually. But then I begin to understand what she's trying to say - that she doesn't want any relationship at all. I try to think of something to say that won't make me sound like a jerk, but all I come up with is "oh."

To my surprise, Virginia smiles at this, although a little ruefully. "I used to try to overcompensate so much," she says. "Like, when I was a kid I promised Jacob we'd get married when we turned eighteen, and didn't _that_ cause me some problems last year. And when we got older and Minnie and Pastel used to come to stay at our house, they'd always giggle about some boy or girl they had a crush on. I had to pretend I liked Logan Pheiffer just so they'd leave me alone!"

I laugh out loud at the picture in my head of Virginia and Logan, and Virginia laughs too, her voice sounding easier and less strained than it has all day.

"But you know," she says soberly when we finish laughing, "when I got to school, I thought about meeting all these new people, and I thought for sure I'd find someone like me. And maybe we'd eventually decide to be just... friends for life, or something. Keep each other company after everyone else paired off. So far I haven't found anyone like that, but I thought I'd at least have time. Because high school is where you have fun with your friends." She frowns. "And then you got _married_."

Now it's my turn to squirm a little. "Not by choice," I say, but Virginia shakes her head.

"Married is married. Just because you didn't have a choice doesn't mean you don't have, like, responsibilities to him, right?

The words seem to float, unanchored and free of context, around my brain. Wisdom. Kindness. Courage. Protection. "Right," I say.

"And then Ellen and my own _brother_ ," Virginia continues, making a gagging sound.

"Ohh," I say, making a supreme effort not to look behind me to see if Donald and Ellen can hear what Virginia is saying about them. "Donald told me about what happened this summer. It wouldn't be that bad if they got together though, would it?"

"He's my _brother_ ," Virginia repeats. "He didn't have to pick my own roommate to have a crush on."

"That's not the kind of thing you can really consciously pick," I suggest.

"I guess," Virginia says. "Remember how Minnie went off the rails with that Katsura kid last year?"

"I think Kyo was the one who went off the rails," I say, but Virginia ignores me.

"And then this year with Jacob," she says. "If he has his way, they're gonna get married on his eighteenth birthday, you know?"

I blink. "Seriously? I mean - they're pretty intense, but I didn't think they were, like, _married_ intense."

Virginia rolls her eyes. "They aren't, exactly. Remember how I told you that me'n'Jacob promised to get married when we were eighteen? Well it was a _real_ promise."

I gape at her, then begin to sputter. "But - I mean - that would mean-"

"We have to get married when we turn eighteen," Virginia replies. "Yep. But Jake finally told Minnie about it last spring, and she figured out there was a loophole in the promise," she says with a smirk. "We sort of left out the part where we got married to each other."

It takes me a second to grasp this, but when I do, I say "so you're just going to have to marry someone when you turn eighteen?"

Virginia shrugs. "Yep. What a pain, right?"

"Oh yeah," I breathe, and we both burst out laughing

"So who are you getting married to?" I ask when we catch our breath.

"Oh," Virginia says, "I dunno. I was going to ask Ellen at first. I had it all planned out - ask her over summer vacation, tell her that I only think of her as a friend, and marriage would just be technical, but it'd be easy because we're roommates, right? And then Donald asked her on a date, and I just-" she makes a rough sound at the back of her throat. "One thing about getting married is, you can't date around unless you make contractual arrangements spelling out what you can and can't do at the time of the ceremony and I just didn't want things to be that complicated - not for my _brother_."

I nod, and Virginia grimaces. "After that, I thought maybe Pastel - she's been my friend since we were kids, but she might not like getting tied down." She shrugs. "I guess I don't really know yet, but I have a couple more months to go, and it doesn't have to be a big deal, right? To get married for the year and a day, get divorced, one and done?"

I shrug. "I dunno. I guess it depends on who you get married to."

Virginia snorts. "No offense, but yours seems a little complicated."

"I guess," I say, and we lapse into silence as I mull over what Virginia's just told me. "So," I say, "this whole marriage thing. You figured it out last spring but you didn't tell me about it?"

"I didn't tell Ellen either," says Virginia. "And I wasn't gonna until over the summer. Marriage, you know, it was kind of… too huge to talk to anyone about it, really."

I don't say anything about this, and we're both silent for a moment.

"So now I sound like a huge hypocrite, right?" Virginia says.

"Well, I wasn't gonna say it, but…" I say with a smirk to let Virginia know that I forgive her.

Virginia seems to think about this for a moment. "I guess what I'm trying to say is, I get it," she finally says. "In my head, I get why you didn't say anything about Grabby. I was just… I dunno, mad? Upset? Thinking you were leaving me behind, keeping all those secrets, disappearing without telling us. I didn't think all this was gonna happen so soon, and I freaked out. I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry too," I say. "But like you said, it shouldn't be that big a deal, right? I mean, if you're just thinking of the one and done marriage, like I've got. I wasn't leaving any more than you will once you get married."

"Yeah but with you it's different," Virginia says. "You _like_ him."

"I guess," I say.

"And he likes you," Virginia continues.

I glance up at her, startled.

"Oh, come on," she says. "It's pretty obvious."

"I don't - it's complicated," I say, thinking that night in August when he'd put his hand on my mouth to push me away from him, the disappointment on his face last night when I'd gotten jealous.

Virginia makes the disgusted sound in her throat again and rolls her eyes. "That's one reason I can't do relationships. Everyone in them thinks it's all more complicated than it actually is. You like him, he likes you - what's the problem?"

"Well, it's weird, creepy and illegal," I say.

"That is very true," Virginia says loftily. "But a couple more years and it's not going to be illegal anymore. Weird and creepy still, sure, but at least you won't be jailbait any more." She stands then. "C'mon, time to go."

"What?" I ask, then turn to see students streaming out of their seats and into the aisle of the van, exiting onto the grounds of Iris Academy. "We're here!" I breathe. I watch as Ellen and Donald pass up the aisles, and then Hieronymous in his glamour passes by without a glance in my direction. "You don't think anyone's going to, like, grab me once I'm out of the van, right?"

"Well," Virginia says, "there's just one way to find out."

She steps into the aisle and I follow, stepping out of the van into cold winter sunlight.


	29. Chapter 29

When I step out of the van, no alarms sound. No officials race out of the school's doors to grab me. No one seems to notice that there's anything out of the ordinary about my being on school grounds. Only Hieronymous, still in his senior student's glamor, pauses to look at me as I blink at the winter sun. He meets my eye, jerks his chin at me, turns and walks toward the school. I follow after making sure that Virginia is close at my heels.

I keep my head down as we enter Horse Hall, not daring to breathe until first Ellen, then Donald, then Hieronymous, myself and Virginia duck into our old room, and Virginia shuts and locks the door. Once inside, though, I stare around me in dismay. Everything I'd had in the room is gone. My top bunk is stripped of its sheets and pillow. The wardrobe in which I'd hung my uniforms is empty of everything except hangers. Even my books, notepads, pens and pencils are emptied from the top of my desk. The room looks as though only two people have lived there since the beginning of the year.

Ellen seems to register my dismay, and steps forward. "They searched our room after you - left," she says. "They took most of your stuff."

"Who are 'they?'" Hieronymous snaps, his sonorous voice sounding out of place in his student's body.

"Uh - the new teachers - sir," Ellen says, turning red and stammering. "I mean, they're not really teachers, I guess. They don't actually teach classes, but Professor Terrec makes us call them "Professor," too. They just appeared the night Professor Potsdam was hurt. Professor McCormick and Professor Hardy, and-"

"If they do not teach classes, what is their purpose?" Hieronymous interupts.

"They're hall monitors, kind of. Security. They're always there to jump down students' throats if they step out of line, y'know? They give out demerits like candy on Halloween. So when they came in to take Eliza's things - well, we didn't - couldn't - say anything to stop them"

"They took everything?" I say, dismayed.

"Well no," Ellen says. "They took all your notebooks and textbooks, but they left a few things." She turns and opens her own wardrobe, and takes something out - my suitcase from home. "It's not very much," she says with an apologetic frown.

I cross the room and help Ellen lay my suitcase on its side so I can open it. The contents are pitifully scant - my uniforms, the copy of _Jane Eyre_ I'd brought from home, a few pencils, the pictures of the Socotran desert I'd pinned to my ceiling. I pull the items out one by one, scattering them on the floor, dismayed at how they seem to barely fill the suitcase that I'd had to sit on in order to close when I'd packed it at the end of the summer.

I tug out another uniform, but notice that there's a slight, extra weight to it that was absent in the others. I shake it, and something falls out of the pocket - the small blue penknife that Damien had given me on the day of the Initiation picnic. I pick up the knife, turning it in my hand.

"What's that?" Donald says.

"Just a knife," I say, and stuff it into the pocket of my black skirt. All my things scattered pitifully on the floor are suddenly too much to bear, so I grab them in handfuls and stuff them back into my suitcase without folding them.

"So," Virginia says, sounding nervous. "What now?"

"Well," Ellen says, her voice brisk and businesslike, "it depends." She rounds on Hieronymous, her brown eyes blazing with curiosity. "Where's the information you were talking about? How are you going to get it? What _is_ it, anyway?"

"Don't you mean 'how can we help?'" Hieronymous says, shoving his hands into the pockets of his glamored uniform and arching an eyebrow at Ellen.

"Well, we need to know-" Ellen starts.

"No, you do not," Hieronymous interrupts, his voice sharp.

"But-" Ellen says.

"Hey," says Donald, stepping between Ellen and Hieronymous. "He's right, we don't need to know." Donald smiles at Ellen, but his voice is strained. Something about it sends a shiver right through me, a sense that unlike Ellen, Donald knows exactly how dangerous hidden information in Iris Academy could be. I'm grateful to him, though - something tells me that if Ellen found out that Professor Potsdam had a hidden library, she'd stop at nothing until she found out where it was and how she could get to it.

"I think I can figure some things out," Donald continues, "but I need some time - and some help." He gives Ellen a wan sort of smile. "I'm gonna bring in Logan and Luke - he just got out of detention. Okay if we talk here? I'd just like to hear what you think."

He gives Ellen a look that I can only describe as "puppy dog," and she gives him a shy smile, turning pink as she does, all curiosity apparently forgotten. "Okay," she says, "sure."

Donald dashes out the door, and Virginia locks it behind him. She turns to look at Ellen, but Ellen won't meet Virginia's eye. Instead, she busies herself at her desk, shuffling through papers and digging out pens.

I decide to stay out of the entire thing, opting instead to climb onto my bare top bunk to survey the scene from a high perch - safe and out of harm's way. I sit, resting my back against the wall and dangling my feet over the edge. After a moment's pause, Hieronymous also swings himself up onto the bunk, seating himself next to me. I'm both embarrassed and pleased - and I have to fight the urge to lean against his shoulder.

"Can't you take the glamor off?" I say instead. "It's weird sitting up here with some senior I don't know." And, I don't add, one I'd thought was cute only about a month ago in what now seems a betrayal of the marriage vows that have kept me from losing my memories altogether.

"And if one of the teachers decides to do a room search?" Hieronymous replies.

"Don't freak me out," I mutter, tucking my knees under my chin and wrapping my arms around them. "I'm scared enough as it is. What do we do once we find the library? I mean, even if we find what we're looking for, where do we go after? We can't go back to the safehouse."

"If I can keep our wards up, we can try a local hotel," Hieronymous says. "We could even stay here for the night if no one detects us prior. It may be advisable to remain in a central location like this one."

"No one suspected that the fugitives were hiding right under Professor Terrec's nose," I pronounce. "I dunno. It still sounds kind of dangerous."

"Our ultimate plan will depend upon what, if anything, we learn," Hieronymous replies. "If worse comes to worse, we may need to depart from this country."

"Where would we go?"

Hieronymous shrugs. "Somewhere with a large repository of magical knowledge," he says. "Not the UK. Paris, possibly, or Cairo - somewhere to continue our research until we find a solution."

I let out a breath through my nose. The world suddenly seems to be incredibly vast, and just thinking of Hieronymous and me rattling around in it, trying to find whatever solution we can to my predicament seems like an overwhelming prospect. "And if it takes longer than - um. Til the end of January?"

"I suppose we will determine any steps beyond that time when we come to it," Hieronymous replies.

"Ah," I say, running my hands along my skirt convulsively, still not quite able to get over the cognitive dissonance of seeing one type of fabric and feeling another.

"Eliza," Hieronymous says after a pause. "I'm not going to leave you by yourself."

I look up to see his eyes - now grey instead of their usual deep maroon - looking at me steadily.

"I'll see you safely to your family," he says.

I look down at my hands. "Oh."

Donald, Luke and Logan, along with an assortment of sophomores and freshmen pick that time to knock on the room door, making me jump a little. When Virginia opens up, they pile in, almost on top of each other, laughing. They glance up at Hieronymous and me on our perch, and stifle the giggles.

"Okay," Donald says, and suddenly everyone quiets. Even Luke and Logan don't just stifle their laughter, they go silent, and I'm impressed. Donald really is the king of pranks - no, the Godfather of pranks, and he's commanding the room. "So everyone's here because we need a distraction - a serious distraction, one that gets all the teachers over on one side of campus at the same time. This isn't a one and done deal though, we need everyone seriously occupied, one hundred percent, for - how long do you need, five minutes? Ten?" he asks, looking up at Hieronymous and me.

"At least ten," Hieronymous says. "And I'd prefer that there be an investigation into what happened - anything to take the instructors' attention for as long as possible."

"And don't get caught!" I add, hurriedly.

Donald looks up at me, winks, and grins. "I told you, I never get caught unless I want to. Okay, so first, we should start after dinner. Give the other students some time to settle down for the night, and make sure there isn't enough going on around campus so that the instructors have to split up and take care of the other students. Second, we need a location - as far away from - uh-"

"The faculty hall," Hieronymous fills in. I glance at Ellen when he says this - she's studiously not looking at Hieronymous, but I'm sure she's soaking up every word.

"Okay, then I'm thinking the back of the building, behind Toad Hall," Donald says. "We'll start out setting up a series of spells over there, and lead a sort of trail toward the woods."

"And what's the excuse if someone catches us out there while we're doing the spells?" asks a boy whose name I don't know. Donald looks over at him and opens his mouth, but to my surprise, the one who answers him is Ellen.

"I've been thinking about that," she says, "and I think the best way to do it will be to separate into two groups - one to set the spells, and one to set them off with a trigger spell. Remember when Barbara set that fire in Falcon Hall last year? Doing it this way gives the trigger group at least some plausible deniability." She gives Donald a nervous smile, as though she's expecting him to be angry for stealing his thunder. But Donald beams at her.

"Perfect," he says. "Ellen, you lead the trigger group, and I'll lead the setup group. Pick a team."

Ellen and Donald divide the group into two, and launch into their plan. I listen, impressed by the level of cunning on display, and a little disappointed that I'm necessarily being left out. "D'you think it'll work?" I hiss to Hieronymous.

"It appears to be possible," he replies in a low voice. "I admit that one of the more frustrating events of the prior year was my inability to determine the individual who instigated last year's incineration. While I had my suspicions, it seems that the individual in question went to one of the school's secret societies for an event, the society determined what they would do without that individual's knowledge, and then ensured that Miss Solmoro would trigger the event unwittingly. As Miss Middleton has pointed out, plausible deniability does indeed offer a veneer of innocence that can be all but impenetrable. In the end, I could not punish the student I deemed to be responsible - not for _that_ crime, at any rate. As a matter of fact, you allowed me to interrogate that student for an unrelated incident, and mete out a punishment I deemed adequate."

I consider this. "So it was Kyo," I say, "going after Jacob."

"As I say, I only have my suspicions," Hieronymous replies, "but as I was unable to make a suitable determination of guilt at that time, I have little reason to suspect that Professor Terrec's methods of investigation would be any more successful than my own."

"Oh," I say, feeling slightly better, but far from convinced. I watch Ellen and Donald continue their planning, both of them flushed and animated. I wish I could join the prank instead of being perched above them, removed and ineffectual. Just another way of using people to get what I want out of them, I think, and have to shake my head vigorously to stop myself. Hieronymous glances at me curiously as I do this, but says nothing.

The students below continue their plotting, some running into and out of the room to grab various tools or textbooks, as though this were a study session for the most exciting exam ever to be held at Iris Academy. I try to follow the threads of their conversations, but quickly lose my place as Ellen starts talking over Donald, then vice versa. And then suddenly I find myself starting awake, with no memory of having fallen asleep in the first place. I'm slumped against Hieronymous' shoulder after all, and to my chagrin, I've left a thin line of drool down the sleeve of his uniform. Looking up, I see him entirely absorbed in my copy of _Jane Eyre_.

Hieronymous shuts the book on one finger when he notices I'm moving. "The sleeper awakens," he pronounces archly.

"Where'd everyone go?" I ask, rubbing my eyes with one hand and attempting to surreptitiously wipe at the drool with the other.

"Dinner," Hieronymous replies. "Ellen has requested that Pastel fetch you a sandwich from the cafeteria. Peanut butter and banana. I suppose I will never understand the American obsession with combining peanut butter with otherwise acceptable foods."

"Peanut butter and banana is a perfectly ordinary flavor combination, and it happens to be my favorite," I retort, stretching my stiff limbs. "Don't try to change me just because we're married."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Hieronymous says, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. He too stretches, then jumps down from the bunk. He begins to pace the room, which I presume he'd been prevented from doing in the first place because I'd fallen asleep on him. He seems restless, and I feel bad for constraining him.

"How's the book?" I ask, for lack of anything better to say.

He gives me a faint smile. "I haven't read it in years. I'd forgotten it was funny. 'I must keep well, sir, and not die.'" He shakes his head and chuckles.

I smile back, tentative but optimistic. "Gothic melodrama and sarcastic humor go together like peanut butter and banana."

Hieronymous's smile widens, a minor miracle in itself, and he says "I'll have to take your word for that."

As it so happens, he doesn't, because when Pastel knocks on the door, she enters the room with two sandwiches, one of which she hands to Hieronymous. He looks at it, raises an eyebrow at me, but then eats the sandwich without any further complaints.

When we're both finished with our meal, Pastel - who is shifting nervously the entire time we're eating - asks "okay -Donald said to have you both ready once you're done eating. You know where you're headed?"

"Yes," Hieronymous says curtly, and moves to the door. I jump off the bunk to follow him, but can't help giving Pastel a suspicious glance as I do. She notices, and scowls.

"What?" Pastel snaps.

"I just don't see why you're helping us with this," I reply, partly against my better judgment. "Don't you like, love Professor Terrec or something?"

"Him?" Pastel says, looking genuinely shocked. "Ew, no!"

Now it's my turn to be shocked. "But the way you act with him in class - and running for treasurer - weren't you trying to get close to him?"

Pastel flicks her hair out of her face. "Oh. That," she says. "Like _you_ don't know."

I blink at her. "What?" She rolls her eyes at me and starts toward the door, and I follow, suddenly angry. "What?"

Pastel whirls on me. "After that crack you made about my mom, you're pretending you don't know?"

"Wh- I did _not_ -" I start, and then all at once remember Pastel saying that her mom knew Professor Terrec, and that I'd said something about it, but can't remember what. "Well I didn't mean it!" I blurt. "I don't know anything about your mom."

Pastel stares at me, her eyes narrowing. "You really don't know?" she asks.

"Know _what_?" I say, already sick of how Pastel's talking in circles.

"How she left? Right after I was born?" Pastel says.

I'm so flabbergasted at this that I only stare at Pastel, who widens her eyes. "Virginia didn't tell you?" she asks. "I thought she'd blabbed to like, every wildseed in our hall or something."

"No," I say, "she didn't say anything." Pastel casts her eyes down, and I feel a twisting sensation in my gut. "I'm really sorry," I say.

Pastel shrugs. "Don't be. I've never actually seen her - just, my dad talks about her all the time, and lots of other people too, so sometimes I feel like I know her. She's a korrigan - well, part korrigan, anyway, is what Dad says. Otherwise, he never would have… you know, had me. With her. Because sylphs are kind of picky about that kind of stuff, and they don't really like humans. But she was beautiful. Like a princess in a fairy tale, he said. And he fell in love with her, and - well, the thing about korrigans is, they're seductive. They can fascinate almost anyone they come across. Professor Terrec's a korrigan too."

"He's a what?" Hieronymous says, frozen with one hand on the doorknob.

"A korrigan," Pastel says. "I can tell because he looks just like my dad says my mom looked. The silvery hair? The eyes?"

"A _male_ korrigan?" Hieronymous says, still looking incredulous.

Pastel shrugs again. "Dad says they're super rare, but they exist. They're sort of like… you know how bees have queens who stay in the hive and do nothing but lay eggs? Male korrigans usually stay in their Otherworld palaces and all they have to do is lie around and wait for lady korrigans to come around, to… I guess perpetuate the race, or something. They can even pick and choose among the ladies, and send anyone away who isn't perfect enough. Like, who would say no to that kind of life, right? But my dad told me that my mom knew this male korrigan who turned it all down to come to this plane and go into politics. When I saw Professor Terrec, I figured it must be him. So, I just thought that if I could get him to like me - if I was perfect enough - maybe he'd tell me where she is."

Pastel looks so downcast, saying this, that it's all I can do not to dash over to where she's standing and throw my arms around her. But I know she wouldn't want that kind of pity, so I stay where I am, and look at Hieronymous to distract myself. But what I see shocks me all over again. He's not looking at either of us, he's staring at his hand on the doorknob. The line between his eyebrows is pronounced, and his mouth is moving silently. He stops whatever he's saying, closes his eyes, then opens them again. His eyes flick towards mine, and then just as quickly, flick away.

"Did it work?" I ask Pastel.

"No," she says, with a bitter little laugh. "He's completely immune to whatever charms I'm s'posed to have. My dad's always going on about how when I get through puberty I'll end up just like my mom, beautiful and - and irresistible. But pretty much everyone finds me perfectly resistible. I can't even get elected onto the student council," she adds, with a reproachful look at me.

"Well to be fair, seduction and politics don't usually mix," I say, in a lame attempt at a joke. When Pastel doesn't laugh, I step over to her, and give her a quick, careful squeeze on one shoulder. "I'm sorry about everything," I say, "and I hope you find her."

Pastel shrugs my hand away, but she doesn't step away from me. "Thanks," she says. "Maybe it's better if I don't. Sometimes I think I'd just be disappointing." She gives a hard little laugh. "Or - who knows, maybe disappoint _ed_."

"We should go," Hieronymous says, and Pastel gives a quick nod, flushing a little.

"You'll be late unless we hurry," she says. "Come on." Pastel hurries out the door, and down the hall toward the faculty buildings. Hieronymous follows without a backward glance, but I hang back for just one moment, looking back into my old room and wondering whether I'll ever see it again. Finally, I force myself to swallow down my fear, and shut the door behind me.


	30. Chapter 30

We walk along the corridors in our glamors, trying to act as naturally as possible. When we walk out of the main hall and into the courtyard path that leads to the faculty building, however, Pastel leads us along the walls, keeping to the evening shadows so that we won't be seen. She leaves us in a niche within sight of the main door. Before she leaves, she tells me "Donald said to tell you, watch out for the red dragon - that's your signal that it's safe to go."

"The-" Hieronymous starts, but Pastel shakes her head quickly.

"He said she'd know what he meant," Pastel says. "I have to get to my position." She turns to go, then turns back, and gives my arm a soft little punch. "Good luck," she says, and then dashes back to the student buildings.

"What does she mean?" Hieronymous asks, when she's gone.

"Oh!" I say, realizing. "Remember that time Donald got detention last year?"

"Eliza, I can hardly be asked to remember every detention Mr. Danson earned himself over the course of his checkered career at this school."

"No, this one was at dueling lessons. He cast a huge dragon and made me duck under it - Professor Potsdam gave him detention over it." I giggle a little at the memory, but then quickly sober. "I don't know if he remembers that I didn't actually _see_ that dragon."

Hieronymous gives me a narrow-eyed look, and seems about to say something scathing, but before he can open his mouth all the way, the sound of a huge explosion rocks the night air. Immediately, Hieronymous grabs me by both arms above the elbows, pushing me into the niche, and blocking me with his body. I can barely see over his shoulder, but I hear the shouts as people begin to race out of the faculty building in the direction of the sound. Some of the faculty I recognize, and some I don't, but all of them seem bent on rushing towards the source of the explosion. There's another one, sounding farther away, and I hear shouts and the faint _whoosh_ of heavy duty spells tearing the air.

As a straggler struggles his way out of the faculty door, Hieronymous shoots an arm out, casting one-handed, and the door remains propped open, wedged with a small stone at its base. Hieronymous sees me notice, and shrugs slightly. "I doubt they've kept last year's code to the evening locking spell," he says. "The best way to ensure we'll get in is to make sure the door doesn't lock in the first place."

But I'm thinking of other things now. "Where's Professor Terrec?" I ask. "Did you see him go out?"

"No," Hieronymous replies. "But Mr. Danson will not signal unless he's positive that Yves is entirely engaged in the subterfuge."

This makes sense to me, but suddenly a hundred "what-ifs" crowd into my brain at once. What if Professor Terrec decides to stay behind and let his minions handle the prank? What if he isn't even here - what if he's gone off campus secretly to - I don't know, hunt for me with the council? Will this entire plan be worthless - will we have to get out of here and go overseas after all?

Even as my mind is racing through these possibilities, I'm starting to find the manner in which Hieronymous is pressing himself into me very distracting. He's still gripping my arms, and his chest is so close to my face, I can feel it rise and fall as he breathes. The night air and the wall against my back is cold, but he seems to be radiating a feverish sort of heat. I begin to wonder - flurry of what-ifs aside - if he'd mind if I leaned my head against him for just a minute.

A third explosion rips into the air, and there's a roaring sound that seems to be growing louder. From behind me, a huge flash of red and yellow light streaks across the sky, twisting and turning on itself, making a loop around the faculty building, and then racing back to where it had first emerged. I watch, awestruck and impressed by Donald's magical ability - he's better at this than I thought.

"Red dragon, I presume," Hieronymous mutters, and without another word, he lunges toward the faculty building, one hand still gripping one of my arms to ensure I'm close behind him. We race through the open path, keeping low to the ground, until we reach the door. With one glance back to ensure we're unobserved, Hieronymous yanks the door open, kicks the stone aside, and pulls me into the faculty building, shutting the door securely behind him.

The faculty hall - where teachers and administrative workers have their offices and rooms, if they live on campus, isn't exactly off-limits to students. During the day, we're permitted to visit teachers in their offices to ask them questions, or to attend study sessions, like the one Hieronymous had held at the beginning of my first year. Even so, I'd seen more of it than most students, as I'd been given permission to visit Hieronymous in his rooms when he was ill, and had kept the habit of visiting him on weekends. But now I'm led even further into the hall than I've ever been. We rush up the stairs to the second floor, and then to the third.

I hadn't been on the building's third story before, and am surprised when it appears to consist of only a very short hallway and a door. Hieronymous approaches the door with some caution, peering at it without reaching for the knob.

"Another coded spell?" I venture, and he shakes his head slowly.

"I'm not sure," he says. "After Miss King's little adventure, I convinced Petunia to increase security to her rooms, but I can't say how she did it. I always asked permission if I had to use her library. And then, I can't be sure that Yves hasn't gotten into the damn place." He squares off in front of the door, then casts a spell. Once it's cast, he settles back into consideration again, pressing his hand against his mouth.

"Shouldn't we hurry?" I say, feeling suddenly anxious. The sounds of shouts and explosions from outside are significantly muted, and I'm scared that if they stop, Professor Terrec might sneak up on us unawares.

"I'm not quite-" he starts, scraping his teeth as he juts his lower jaw out. Then, with sudden speed, he reaches to the door and brushes one finger against the polished wood. He darts back as though he's afraid he'll be bitten, but all that happens is that the door swings smoothly open. We both start back, but nothing leaps out at us.

I glance at Hieronymous, and he looks back at me. "All right," he says, "let's try it. But don't touch the door." He reaches out and pushes the door in, enough to give me enough berth to walk through without brushing against the wood. He ducks in after me, and shuts the door behind him. "Not bad," he mutters. "Seems to open up based on whether Petunia'd welcome you in. I don't think it'd withstand any purposeful assault, but I doubt any of the students are up to what it'd take to batter the door down. Complicated bit of work."

While Hieronymous seems lost in his admiration of Professor Potsdam's locking spell, I'm astonished at the contents of her room - well, I should say, rooms. When I'd visited Hieronymous's room, it had been spacious - enough room for a large four-poster, extensive bookshelves and his huge desk, with an adjoining private bathroom. It was a bit like a large hotel room. Professor Potsdam's living quarters, on the other hand, are a palatial suite. We're standing in a sitting room that includes a set of chairs positioned around a long, low coffee table, with a decorative tea set positioned as though for company. Further back, a harpsicord sits near a corner, and in the space opposite, a large dining table and chairs. There's a kitchenette off the dining side, and a hallway leading towards what I have to assume is the bedroom and bathroom. It's all very elegant - not to mention, very pink. The walls, curtains, furniture - even the harpsicord - are all varied shades of pink. She's managed to keep it classy - there aren't any garish shades - but the effect on the eye is startling, and I find myself blinking at the unexpected saturation of color.

Hieronymous is already moving into the suite, back towards the hallway. "Well that's one thing we have on our side," he says over his shoulder. "If Yves had bothered to get in, he'd certainly have rearranged things, to say the least. This appears as though it's just as Petunia left it."

"Yeah," I say through lips that seem to have gone numb. "That's great." I follow him into the room and down the hallway, trying to process this information. Wouldn't it make sense for Professor Terrec to search Professor Potsdam's rooms for information about the school? Then again, I reason, it's possible that he's still going through her office. It may be that Professor Terrec doesn't feel as though he needs to go through Professor Potsdam's rooms - at least, not yet. It's only been a month, after all. Still, that means he must be unaware that Professor Potsdam has a private library in her quarters. I can't decide whether this is a good or bad thing - whether he won't suspect the goal of our subterfuge, or whether we might be leading him right toward Professor Potsdam's secret.

The hall seems to extend the entire length of the building. Closed doors appear at intervals, and even more frequently, there are little glass tables with trinkets displayed decoratively on them, and paintings or prints hanging on the walls. I don't get to examine these with any kind of attention - Hieronymous has his light spell overhead, and I'm forced to rush along after him. When we reach the end of the hall, there's only one remaining door ahead, and as the light hits it, I start back with a gasp.

"What?" barks Hieronymous over one shoulder.

"The - the door," I stammer. "It's the same as your father's."

The door is made of the same red-tinged wood that I remember from Aloysius Grabiner's private library, and has the same set of leering little figures with strangely disproportionate limbs carved into its panels. At least I think they're the same - they look similar, anyhow, and I feel a similar sense of dread just staring at them.

Hieronymous snorts at my discomfort. "Well, I should think so," he says. "They're traditional - from a time when magical education was far less formalized. Most magicians were taught via apprenticeship, and had to achieve a certain amount of prowess before permitted into their tutor's library proper. The figures are meant to deter the young from entering the door before they are fully prepared. They symbolize the concept that while the power of magic can seem very attractive, its reality can be - ugly." He reaches out with one fingertip, and touches the face of one of the figures - almost a caress. The door, once again, springs open at his touch.

At this, I realize that the figures aren't the only thing similar about this door and my late father-in-law's. He'd told me, that day when he'd attacked me in his own library, that he'd placed a spell on the door to only allow those that he'd wanted to enter come in - just like the entrance to Professor Potsdam's rooms, and, it seems, this door. And suddenly I begin to wonder just how Emmy had managed to enter this place - and whether she truly hadn't been welcome.

Hieronymous is halfway through the door, so I don't have a chance to vocalize this thought before having to rush in after him, careful not to touch the door lest it slam itself shut to prevent me from entering.

Hieronymous sends his light spell out ahead of us, illuminating our place at the top of a staircase leading down into a library. It's neither as large nor as grand as the late Lord Montague's, but it's still far more impressive than any other I've seen, particularly the student's library at Iris Academy. Rows of shelves packed with books line the walls, and there's a large reading table scattered with books in the center.

Even faced with such a fantastic library as this, however, my heart begins to sink. How on earth are we going to find what we need in this enormous place? And how much time do we have to find anything before Professor Terrec comes bursting in after us?

"Do you think Professor Terrec'll find us in here?" I ask.

Hieronymous, already descending the stairs, barely bothers to turn his head towards me as he answers. "Doubtful. I don't think he knows this place exists - he'd surely have battered the door down if he had. This library isn't common knowledge, even among the faculty - and those of us who do know about it certainly wouldn't tell anyone else without Petunia's permission."

My unease deepens. With such secrecy that even Professor Terrec doesn't know about this place, I have to wonder how on earth Emmy managed to find it at all, let alone break in.

I'm mulling these thoughts as I approach the large reading table, scanning the books that litter its surface, when the sight of one book's cover crowds my misgivings out of my head.

"Heironymous!" I gasp, rushing forward to seize the book. "Hieronymous, look!"

Hieronymous half turns, cocking one eyebrow at me. "What is it?"

"It's the book - the big one, on demons that Emmy told us about," I say. The book is about the thickness of a brick,with a beautifully scuffed mahogany leather binding. The title - _Demons: Their Culture and History_ \- is embossed in burnished bronze. "I mean it has to be, right? You don't see any other big books on demons - do you?" The uneasy feeling has begun to settle itself in my stomach again. It's a pretty big coincidence to have just the book we're looking for sitting out on the central table instead of being properly shelved.

The feeling is so strong that I actually look around to see whether Professor Potsdam is lurking in the shadows of the bookshelves. Of course, when I do, I don't find anyone there but Hieronymous and me.

I pick up the book and set it before me, rifling through its pages. "Didn't you want to look at it?" I ask.

Hieronymous doesn't look at me this time he's already pulled several books from one shelf and is leafing through one in his hands. "You look first," he says absently.

Now I have even more uneasy feelings to swallow, but I do my utmost to calm myself and concentrate on my book. What had Emmy said - the story she'd found was a sort of fairy tale? I flip to the index, and after some searching, find a promising-looking chapter on demon mythology. I turn to it and begin to read.

_Demons, much like humans, originated with no inherent magical ability. However, unlike humans, members of the faerie races did not consider demons sufficiently desirable for the purpose of mating and siring hybrid children of magical ability. This made it a simple matter for the faerie, and later, magical humans, to colonize the demons_ _' ancestral homeland in the Otherworld. The demonic race was reduced to a mere fraction of its former population, and driven into the wastes._

_Demonic folklore, however, tells a tale of the manner in which the entirety of the demon race achieved its magical ability._

_In the dark days following the ouster of the ruling family from their homeland, the queen of the demons led a straggling group of survivors to a mountainous region. There, the band took shelter in a cave for the night. The queen was awoken from a sound sleep by a being that was not faerie, demon or human. She had no name for the creature, nor could she identify it, for it had no distinguishing features. Indeed, it had no shape at all._

" _Hello little girl," said the creature, which had no mouth from which to speak the words. "Are you lost?"_

" _I am neither little, nor a girl," the queen replied, drawing herself to her full height. She spoke in ringing tones, but her subjects did not awaken. Even the guards that had been posted to watch over the band of survivors had fallen asleep._

" _That does not matter," said the creature, "for you are here with me now. Would you like to play a game with me?"_

_The queen did not answer the creature, but asked of it a question instead._ _"If I play a game with you, what will happen?"_

" _If you win," the creature said, "I will grant you your deepest desire. And if I win, you will stay with me until the end of your days."_

_The queen considered this, her heart full of fear. But despite her fear, she was a queen, with a queen_ _'s courage. "What game shall we play?" she asked._

" _You may choose," the creature said._

_The queen said,_ _"I accept." What she knew, and what the creature did not, was that she had spent her lifetime mastering the demons' ancient game of Ko. She chose that game, and while their match was close, the queen eventually triumphed over the creature._

_When the match was finished, the creature admitted his defeat. He then asked the queen_ _"what will you choose as your reward?"_

_The queen thought for a long time. She knew that she could ask for her throne to be returned to her. She could ask for the demons who had been killed in the war to be given life anew. She could ask for the destruction of the faerie and magical humans who had wreaked such havoc upon her people. But the queen, who was wise beyond her years, understood that conquering her enemies with only a wish would be too easy, and would not be enough to grant her people peace._

_Instead, the queen told the creature,_ _"I wish that the demons would be granted the inherent ability of magic, so that they may stand against the faerie as equals."_

" _Done," said the creature, and from then on, all demons possessed within themselves the power of magic from birth. The queen used her newfound prowess to rule over the wastes and cultivate them, eventually building the mighty capital City of Dis. The demons honor the wise and ancient queen, as well as the shapeless creature who granted them their powers, to this day. However, the gift of magic was not enough to forestall the ouster and abandonment of the City of Dis thousands of years later, when the faerie and humans once again joined forces and waged war upon the demon race (page 653)._

I finish reading the story with a dry, cottony taste in my mouth. This is the thing I'm looking for, I know. Between this story and Emmy's, this creature - whatever it might be - is the key to getting back my magic. But all this stuff about demons - how they were wiped out from their home by fairies and humans - is so horrible that it turns my stomach. I'd never actually thought about it - the fact that the word demon is a sort of shorthand for "evil." But are they? Damien's actions over the past year have been awful, of course, but the story of the demon queen - her bravery and cleverness - have me questioning my own assumptions.

"Heironymous," I say, "did you know about all this stuff? The demons getting wiped out?" I look up, but Hieronymous isn't acknowledging me. He's kneeling in a stack of books, flipping through one, tossing it aside, and picking up another. "Don't you want to see this?" I ask, but he ignores me. He's lost in the latest book he'd picked up, holding it close to his face. I stare at him for a moment, bewildered. Isn't this the book he'd said he wanted to look at - the one he wanted to break into this place for?

Well, I decide, I have enough to think about as it is. It's quite clear that this creature resides in the Otherworld, so how am I supposed to find it? Emmy seems to have attracted its attention by being young and lost, but should I do the same - wander the streets for heaven knows how long until this thing might or might not notice me? Or is there another way to get the thing's attention?

I flip through the mythology chapter to a chapter about the history of demons following the war with faerie and humans - a lot of stories about the struggle of the demons to establish settlements, to rebuild their society, to overcome the hardships of having to wander for years, then centuries, with no established home. It's a bit like the Pentateuch, actually - the story of a wandering people, both blessed and cursed. And as I peruse the chapter, something about this remembered history tries to push its way into my brain.

 _The chosen people_ , I think. _The chosen people were promised a leader, a chosen one, a-_

I turn the page, and my eyes go wide.

_Demons, the book reads, have foretold the coming of one who will lead the species to a victory against those who have stolen their ancient domain._

"A messiah," I say out loud, and a sudden movement in the corner of my vision startles me into looking up. It's Hieronymous - his un-glamored face white against his black hair. _When did he lift the glamor?_ I wonder, but he rushes at me with a movement so fast, he drives all thought from my mind.

"What did you just say?" he snaps, but before I can answer, he snatches the large book from my hands.

"The chosen one," he reads, "will achieve victory against the faerie who stole the demons' land, and against the humans who so successfully portrayed them as an inherently evil species. He will be born of demon and human stock, and will raise an army that will - defeat all that stands before-" He takes a deep breath, lets it out, presses one hand to his mouth.

"Yeah," I say, to fill the silence pervading the small library. "Weird, right?"

Hieronymous doesn't answer - his eyes are moving back and forth, scanning the text.

"But, I mean," I say, "It doesn't have anything to do with that shapeless thing, right? So we don't have to-"

"Shut _up_ ," Hieronymous snaps, and I start back, aghast.

"But isn't that what you - you said you'd help me-" I start, and then frown. Hieronymous turns back to the book.

"He can't honestly think that _he_ _'d_ be the-" Hieronymous mutters, before cutting himself off and turning another page. I stare at him, dismay rising into my throat.

"You never wanted to help me get my magic back," I say. "You just needed me with you to get everyone to help you get into the library - because they wouldn't do it unless I asked them!" My mouth turns down in dismay. "You _used_ me!" I shout.

Hieronymous glares up at me over his book. "Eliza, there are more important-"

" _What_ _'s_ more important?" I shout. "We're supposed to be a team - remember? And you just - I can't _believe_ you lied to me!" I take a step back, tears springing in my eyes.

"We do not have time for this," Hieronymous shouts, gripping the book until his knuckles go white.

"What's so important?" I yell back, surprising even myself with the volume I can muster. Even Hieronymous starts back, looking nonplussed. My voice starts to hitch, but I keep the volume as high as I can as I shout "what the hell's so important that you get to lie to me and use my friends-" I gulp, trying to hold back the sob that's threatening to escape my throat.

"Eliza, there is no need for you to-" Hieronymous starts in a low, clear voice, attempting to undercut my outburst by keeping himself under control, I assume. But this just infuriates me further.

"I deserve to know!" I scream, no longer caring if I alert half the campus with the noise.

" _War!_ " Hieronymous screams back in my face, and as if to punctuate the statement, he turns and throws the huge book into one of the bookshelves lining the walls. It hits with a thunk, and clatters to the floor.


	31. Chapter 31

I glance from the book to Hieronymous' stark white face, shocked into silence. He, too, looks as though he's shocked himself with his own outburst. He steps away from me, then turns to retrieve the book.

"I had my suspicions when you told me about what Mr. Ramsey attempted to do to Mr. Al-Sharif," he says, picking the book up between his hands and smoothing the pages as though trying to soothe its injuries. "And I was further concerned after speaking to Miss King. But it wasn't until we spoke to Miss Rao that I made the connection. I had to confirm it."

"What connection?" I wail. "You're not making sense!"

"Korrigans," Hieronymous says, turning to me. His face is anguished, and I'm suddenly even more frightened than I'd been when he was shouting. "They are notorious for stealing children and leaving changelings in their place."

I blink at him, baffled, still not making whatever connection he has.

"It's all in here," he says, tapping the pages of the book with the back of his fingers. "A creature - half demon, half human, a demon without a demon's weaknesses. Raised as a changeling by humans and educated into the ways of the faerie - in magic. When e proves es worth by seizing an innocent magical soul, e is elevated to the status of royalty among the demons, and becomes - _this_."

"But he didn't!" I insist. "Damien didn't take Ahmed's soul - he couldn't do it!"

Hieronymous shakes his head. "I don't pretend to know what has happened," he says, "but if Mr. Ramsey has ascended to the heights to which he has claimed, he has succeeded in finding a loophole in the requirement."

"Meaning what?" I ask, in a voice that's gone a bit ragged from all the shouting.

"It is here," Hieronymous says, placing the book on the table and pointing. "A chosen one of human and demon stock destined to raise an army and defeat any human or faerie host that stands before it. _War_ , Eliza. It means war. And I don't know what to do about it."

My mouth seems to have gone completely dry. "That's just a book," I say, wanting to believe it more than I actually do. "You don't believe in that stuff - prophecies, and destinies - right?"

Hieronymous gives me a cold, hard look. "What I believe is beside the point," he says. "I know enough to understand that it is those who are true believers in prophetic statements who can cause the most damage. And it appears that Yves - and Mr. Ramsey - are believers."

I shake my head slightly. "Professsor Terrec's a fairy though - korrigans are fairies," I insist. "There's no reason Professor Terrec should be helping Damien start a war against his own species."

"No reason that we know about - yet," Hieronymous corrects.

"Well, we could find out! Once I get my magic back, we-" I start, but Hieronymous is shaking his head slowly.

"No, Eliza," he says. "It's too much of a risk."

I start to try to speak, but no sound comes out of my mouth. I try again, feeling as though I have to squeeze my own lungs as hard as I can to get the words out. "What are you saying?"

"I'll find somewhere for you to stay," he says, "until our vow is kept."

"No," I whisper, aghast.

"You'll be safe with your family," he insists.

"No," I repeat. "That's not the choice I made!"

"The choice one makes when one is thirteen," Heironymous says, voice cold, "is rarely the last word on the subject."

"But - my friends - everyone at school - aren't they in danger too? You're not going to just pack them off to their parents, even if they're wildseed, are you?"

"The circumstances are different," Hieronymous replies. "They are only students. You, on the other hand, have been specifically targeted by the instigator of the present conflict. If all goes as I think it might, there won't be any place - magical or otherwise - where you'd be safe." He takes a step forward, hands at chest level, supplicating. "You know I - couldn't allow something to happen to you, Eliza," he says in a half-whisper. "Not just because of the vows. You know why."

I back away before he can touch me. "Yeah," I spit, "I know why."

This wasn't the answer he was expecting, and Hieronymous, too, draws back warily.

Somehow, Hieronymous' guardedness infuriates me even more. "You don't really care what happens to me!" I shout. "If you did, you'd _listen_! I'm _not_ ending up like Mrs. Craft, searching for magic she half-remembers for her entire life! What kind of a life would that be - away from my friends? My community? And it's _mine_ , you know, I'm not just some interloper just because I'm wildseed. When I made the choice, it became _mine_ , just like everyone else's! I don't care what you or Professor Terrec or Damien or anyone says! It's mine, and I'm going to fight for it, if it comes to that!"

"No one is questioning your bravery, Eliza," Hieronymous says, but I cut him off.

"Then what?" I snap. "My ability? In case you forgot in the last half hour, you wouldn't have even gotten in here if it hadn't been for me!" I pause, half sickened by what I know I'm about to say, and half enjoying my own righteous anger. "You wouldn't even be here in the first place!"

Hieronymous blanches at this, but says "I am not denying that you saved my life," through clenched teeth. "All I am asking is that you allow me to return the favor."

"Of _what_?" I shout. "Taking away my entire life?"

Hieronymous' face is flushed, the line between his eyebrows pronounced, and he shouts at me. "Eliza, I am _not_ going to see you killed!"

" _You just don_ _'t want it to be your fault!_ " I scream back.

And then, there's utter silence. All of the remaining color drains out of Hieronymous's face as he stares at me in shock.

I feel strange, almost as though I've been floating outside my own body, and have suddenly been pulled back into it again. I stare at my husband, realizing what I've just said to him. I don't feel frightened of his anger, or disappointed with myself - I'm still to shocked for any of that. All I find myself thinking, over and over again, is _some team we ended up making_.

Hieronymous takes a long, deep breath and opens his mouth as though he's about to say something, but whatever it is is interrupted by a huge banging crash coming somewhere above our heads.

Both of us whip in the direction of the sound. It comes again, this time louder - coming from the top of the library stairs.

It's me who figures out what's happening first, and when I do, my entire body goes numb with fear. "Oh my God," I breathe. "The wards."

Hieronymous turns slowly towards me, his eyes suspicious.

"Emmy's wards!" I wail. "We lost track of the time! They only last twelve hours - they know we're here!"

Hieronymous reaches me in two long strides and snatches my arm - not very gently. With his other hand he casts a teleport spell, and I brace myself.

Nothing happens. Hieronymous swears under his breath, tries again. Nothing.

"They've warded us in," he says, his voice low and terse. "All they need do is break through Petunia's security spells, and-"

He doesn't need to finish. I know what will happen once Professor Terrec gets to both of us, now trapped like insects in a jar. Strangely, as I acknowledge this, the adrenaline rush of fear seems to fade, and I feel extremely calm.

 _Well_ , I think, _we_ _'ve wasted our last few minutes fighting, and now I go back to jail. If Professor Terrec doesn't just cut to the chase and erase my brain right here and now, that is_.

As if to punctuate this thought, there's another, louder crash from above. My heart seems to plummet from my chest to somewhere near my feet.

I start to scan the room for a hiding place before realizing what a stupid idea this is - if they can sense we're in here, they'd surely ferret out any place we'd tried to hide. We have to get out - but if we can't go physically or teleport, where can we go? Isn't there any place we can travel with the wards that are pinning us in?

And then I have it, the thought sudden and sharp in my head.

"Otherworld," I say.

Hieronymous, who had been staring at the door at the top of the stairs as though he were a bird hypnotized by a snake, turns to blink at me.

"There's no physical boundary, like you said," I continue, "so we wouldn't have to cross the wards to go into the Otherworld - right? We could teleport there from here, even if the wards are in place!"

Hieronymous stares at me, and then says - so quietly I see the word on his lips more than I hear it - "no."

"But we have to!" I hiss, not daring to speak louder. "We _have_ to! We can't teleport anywhere, and we can't run! What other way is there?"

Another crash, much closer this time, and reality seems to bend in front of me - my panic warping my view of the world, as though I really were an insect trapped in a jar, and someone has just given the glass a hard tap with the side of a knife. There are voices audible now, and one of them sounds like it could be Professor Terrec's, leading the charge. I close my eyes. _Oh God_ , I think, but I've never really known how to pray, and I have no idea how to start now.

But when I open my eyes, the first thing I see his Hieronymous - his own eyes closed, his hands in front of him, starting up a complex spell. I suck in my breath as I see him do it, but right in the middle, his hands start to shake, and he falters, then stops. Nothing happens - he's miscast.

His eyes are still closed, and he shakes his head, slightly at first, and them strongly. "No," he repeats, "No. I can't do that. I can't take you there."

I have no idea how to calm him except to put my hands on him, so that's what I do. I take his face between my hands - difficult, as he's so much taller than I am - and try to ignore the fact that he looks as though he's about to vomit down the front of my skirt. I go on tiptoe, pulling his head toward mine as I do, until I'm stretched to my limit, and he's half crouched.

"Yes you can," I whisper. Our foreheads are touching now, our noses side by side, and I can feel his breath inside my mouth. "Yes you can. You can."

Another crash, and I flinch, but I don't let go of Hieronymous's face. _Well, this is it_ , I think, and I clench my eyes shut.

And then, almost tentatively, Hieronymous starts to put his arms around me. He steps forward so that I'm forced to let go of his face - I put my arms round his neck for lack of a better place to put them. I'm pressed against his chest, still on tiptoe, watching the door above the stairs over Hieronymous's shoulder. Another crash, and I think I can see the door shudder on his hinges.

Hieronymous's voice comes, then, low but no longer whispering. I can feel his elbows against my sides as he starts to cast, his hands moving behind my back where I can't see them. And then - and this is enough to make me clench my fingers in Hieronymous's hair with surprise - I feel something open behind me, as though a formerly solid wall has shifted into revealing an endless space, an almost tactile void.

Another crash, and this time, the door opens.

I open my mouth to shriek, but there isn't even the time to do that. Hieronymous already has me by the waist, lifting me off my feet, and taking off at a dead run. The last thing I see is a snatch of indigo robe and silver hair.

And then the world is reduced to the sensation of getting pulled through the eye of a needle, insides first, and I wash up upon some shore, heaving, divesting the remains of my peanut butter and banana sandwich before I can think too much about it.

 _This seems like it would be a liability - getting motion sick every time you go to the Otherworld_ , I think. _Does everyone feel this way, or did you just pick the short straw?_

It's a moment before I trust myself to open my eyes - the world around me seems as though it's spinning, even with them shut. This gives me time to consider what I should expect to see - perhaps the late Lord Montague's Otherworld estate, grand and impersonal as I've imagined it to be. Or maybe the beautiful abattoir, Revane Cottage, where so many people recently met their deaths. Maybe it's in the middle of a slavering horde of goblins, waiting for an innocent magical child upon which to feast. Or maybe - and I hope this is so - it's in the middle of a charming glade where delicate fairy beings approach to help the sick newcomers to their feet and give them a place to rest.

When I open my eyes, I find none of these things. Instead, spread before me, is a wasteland.

The sky is a churning gray that's nearly ochre with sickly, dying light of no discernible origin, and masses of cloud - or what I assume is cloud. The ground is so barren that it can't even be called ground - it's a dusty dirt, almost the same color as the sky. The only objects providing some relief in this monochrome landscape are stumpy, twisted trees, nearly black in color. They have no leaves, so I can't tell whether they're burned, or only dead. The very air seems thick and slightly poisonous, smelling of brimstone and something even less pleasant that I can't quite identify. But worse than all of these things is the thought that this landscape is somehow familiar - that I've seen it before, and I just can't remember exactly where.

I'm lying on my side in this filthy dirt, and I struggle to my hands and knees, wincing at having to touch the ground as I do. It's powdery in a way that almost feels greasy, and I have to resist the urge to wipe my hands on my skirt - I'm so unsteady that I'll just have to put my palms back on the ground and get them dirty again. The sight of my half-digested sandwich in front of me does nothing to improve the view. I'm making _guh-guh_ sounds in the back of my throat, and my stomach clenches so that I have to close my eyes and take deep breaths of the foul-smelling air before I know that I won't be sick again.

As I do this, I try to think about what on earth it is the two of us are going to do now. _Hope Hieronymous isn_ _'t passed out like he was last time_ , I think. _If he_ _'s okay, we teleport out, I guess. If you can teleport anywhere on earth from the Otherworld, maybe we could go to Paris or something after all. And then we could-_

I suddenly remember the subject of our argument before fear had driven it from my mind.

 _...find somewhere nice and safe to sock me until our marriage term is up,_ my brain finishes for me. _And there_ _'s sure no talking him out of it now, thanks to a certain someone who can't keep her big mouth shut._

That's when someone puts a hand on me. At first, for one brief moment, I think it might be Hieronymous signaling that it's time to go. But of course, it can't be - for one thing, Hieronymous doesn't have nails so long that they're almost claws. For another, he wouldn't seize me by the hair.

My head is forced upward, and my eyes spring open. I'm staring at the bleak, not quite gray sky. I don't see whoever - or whatever - my captor is. He, she or e is holding my head as far back as it can go, lifting me to my feet by the hair so hard that I can almost feel it ripping out of my scalp. E's breathing close to my ear, and the breath is both hot and slightly foul, like a concentrated puff of the air around me.

"Look at this," e says, in a raspy sort of voice. "What do you reckon?"

"I haven't seen any of them around these parts for - well, an age," says another voice, similar but a little deeper.

"I've never even seen one," my captor says. "Can it talk, do you think?"

"Of course, it can talk. Don't be dim."

My captor shakes me by the hair slightly. "Hello-oo," e says, in a croony sort of voice - the kind you'd use to call a stray cat. I'm too petrified to make anything but a little choking sound in my throat. "Doesn't sound like it can talk," e says.

The other voice makes a disgusted sound. "Might be one of them defective ones," e says. "Look, here's another."

 _Hieronymous!_ I think, and try to struggle away from my captor's grip. E holds me tight, pinning my arms behind my back, and leans down to my ear.

"Nope," e says, "You're going to stay right here with me, nice'n'cozy." I feel es face turn away from me then, the lack of hot, sour breath in my ear. "You ask me, they're all defective. Or just plain funny looking, anyway."

"I'd watch who you say that around," says the other. "You know I don't mind, but there's some-"

My captor makes a pensive grunt in the back of his throat. "I suppose so," e says. "What should we do with 'em?"

"We-ell," the other voice says, " _He_ _'ll_ probably want to see 'em, but if they're defective… well, we could find some other use for 'em"

This shocks the voice out of me, and I burst out, in a voice so shaky it doesn't feel like mine, "p-please don't eat us!"

"Oh!" says my captor in a delighted voice. " _Oh_ \- did you hear that? Mine talked!"

The other heaves a sigh. "You'd better be glad your da got you into the guard," e says. "You wouldn't last two days in the army. Right - we'd better bring 'em in."

My captor chuckles into my ear. " _Eat_ you," e says, as though speaking to a child. "What d'you think we are - goblins?"


	32. Chapter 32

My captor ties my hands behind my back, ties something around my head blocking my eyes, and - the final indignity - shoves a filthy tasting rag into my mouth, so far that I can't work it loose. My captor doesn't seem to want to do this, protesting loudly that e won't be able to hear it if I talked again. Es companion shuts em down by saying "if they en't defective, they're wizards, and you know what _he_ said about lettin' undocumented wizards wander around."

There's no further argument after that - just the rag. I consider protesting that I can't do magic, but decide at the last minute that it's better if they think I'm more dangerous than I really am. I regret this decision almost immediately. The rag tastes as though it's been used to wipe my captor's nose - _or worse_ , I think - and start to gag. I have to focus all my attention on not being sick. If I were, I'd surely asphyxiate before anyone realized what was happening.

I'm marched an interminable distance, prodded forward by my captor if e decides I'm moving too slowly. My captor still doesn't seem entirely happy - e keeps up a running commentary under es breath about how all this doesn't seem fair, and maybe I'm not so funny looking after all. At one point, e calls to es companion "are you _sure_ this one's dangerous? Look at it - it's so little."

"Yeah, well they grow up big," the other one says, though I could tell them that it's unlikely I'll grow beyond my currently modest height. At one point, my captor even picks me up - which is a relief at first to my screaming calf muscles and aching foot pads - but which turns into a torment very quickly, given my captor's smell, which makes it very difficult to breathe through my nose. This continues until the other yells "will you put that thing _down_? You don't know where it's been!"

My captor grumbles and sets me on my feet, but gives me a surreptitious-feeling pat on the head.

 _E thinks I_ _'m a kitten!_ I realize as I start to walk again. _No - something more dangerous - a tiger cub or something that_ _'s cute but can maul if it grows up._ I try to project fierce, tiger-y thoughts, but they don't seem to do anything productive.

We walk until I think I might drop to the ground from exhaustion. The air around me isn't exactly hot, but it's close, and sweat starts to trickle under my blindfold, stinging my eyes. The only thing keeping me putting one foot in front of the other is the surety that if I collapse and have to be picked up again, I will suffocate from my captor's stench. _I wonder how Hieronymous is doing_ , I think. Likely, he's in the same state I am - bound, gagged, stumbling blindly forward. A sickening thought - that maybe I'll never see him again, that maybe we'll get executed without these creatures ever removing the blindfolds - hits me, and I let out a low sob. It's muffled, but my captor hears it, and gives me another pat.

"There there," e says, "I told you we weren't going to eat you, didn't I?"

I guess it's a relief, but at the moment, I don't feel very comforted. I keep walking.

The first thing that changes is the ground under my feet. It no longer has the spongy sandlike quality of the dusty dirt, but becomes hard and solid. It's tough against my sore feet, but a relief to my aching leg muscles, which had to overcompensate in softer ground. The second thing that changes is the noise - roughish voices, similar to those of my captor and his partner begin to sound, first in front of me, then around me, getting louder and more numerous as I walk. My captor turns to speak to some of them, but I don't really listen into their conversation - I'm too tired.

The third thing that changes is the light and air around me, and that's an incredible relief. The light dims, the heat falters, and the smell of the strangely thick air alleviates. Wherever we've gone, it's cool and dark and sweet smelling, and I breathe easier, with gratitude. I'm walked for a pace, and then my captor's companion says "wait here."

I run into something in front of me which - I think - might be Hieronymous by the shape and smell. I'm pulled away from him and sat on a chair or bench that's uncushioned and cold. Despite all this, it's a relief to be sitting, and I slump forward. I feel someone - my captor, I think - sit next to me. My suspicion is confirmed when es clawed hand begins patting me on the head. "It's all right now," e says, "it's all right," patting and patting my head until I want to scream, but can't.

It seems an age before the companion comes back and says, tersely, "he'll see them." I'm hauled onto my feet again - they seem to hurt all the more for the brief respite - and taken somewhere else, more talking and scraping and booming sounds ahead of me. My breathing starts to come faster and more ragged, and I start fighting the rag in my mouth, even though I know I can't dislodge it. Finally I try to take another step forward, but am stopped by a hand - my captor's? - on my shoulder. I halt, and stand for what feels like eons.

"Hm," says a voice in front of me. "All right. Go away."

There's a shuffling, then a scuffling, then the sound of feet retreating behind me, a door opening and closing. Then a long silence.

That voice directly in front of me sounds again - giving a low chuckle that sounds both menacing and strangely familiar. It grows louder, and then there are footsteps coming toward me. Then, quick as a flash, the rag is pulled out of my mouth. I immediately start coughing - gagging, really - my tongue hanging out of my mouth as I try to expel the rag's foul taste. I try to spit, but my mouth is so dry that I can't manage to work up any saliva.

"Well," the voice says, once I've stopped gagging and am just heaving breath in and out, "don't you have anything to say - ice princess?"

I close my eyes, squeezing them together behind the mask, and heave a sigh that's half disgust and half despair. "Hi, Damien."

Damien whips the blindfold from my eyes, and I blink in the sudden blaze of light. We're in a sitting room of sorts, though it's large and grand. The ceilings are high, and the walls supporting them are wrought entirely of faceted glass, some sporting colorful patterns. They all emit a rich, golden light that I'm sure can't be coming from the desolate wasteland outside. A niche in one of the walls contains a long, low sofa, covered with cushions and pillows. Lanterns are hung at intervals along the ceiling, some glowing with light, some expelling wisps of smoke that seem to be the source of the room's sweet scent. And then, standing in front of me, is Damien himself, pinching his chin in one hand. He's resplendent in a sort of caftan-like robe with a sash around his waist, all of the fabric picked out in multicolored embroidery and shot with gold thread. He's so dazzling that I have to turn away to shield my eyes - and catch sight of Hieronymous next to me. As I suspected, he's also bound and gagged, with a blindfold tied around his eyes.

I look back to Damien, who first frowns, then smirks. "All right," he says, then turns and removes Hieronymous's gag and blindfold. Hieronymous takes the removal of his gag with better grace than I, not gagging or even coughing, but merely cutting his eyes down to Damien.

"Professor Grabiner," Damien says, jerking his chin up.

"Scholar Ramsey," Hieronymous says drily.

Damien pinches his chin again, and cocks his head at both of us. "You know," he says, "I could have both of you flogged for not calling me 'your majesty.'"

Hieronymous glares at Damien in a guarded sort of way. "'Your majesty,' is it?" he says. "You'll forgive me, I hope, if I ask the provenance of your claimed title?"

Damien frowns. "I don't think you're in a position to question me about anything," he says. "You're trespassing in my territory, and don't tell me you just happened to be passing through. Are you spying for that bat-faced hag?"

A sudden fury flashes through me, overriding the last of my fear. How can he accuse us of spying for Professor Potsdam when he's the one who incapacitated her to the point where I was accused of trying to kill her?

 _Maybe he doesn_ _'t know what he's done to her_ , I realize, and I open my mouth to shout at Damien, but Hieronymous shoots me a warning look. I reluctantly shut my mouth, reflecting that it's really only gotten me into trouble thus far.

"As it so happens," Hieronymous says, his tone even and measured, "we entered your territory by mistake. I had meant to travel to my family's property, and I would appreciate it if we could be liberated so that we could conclude our journey."

Damien purses his lips, considering Hieronymous's explanation. "Your family's property," he repeats. "So - what, you just _decided_ to take your underage wife to the Otherworld? Just on a whim?" He stretches his hand out to me, and pinches my own chin between thumb and forefinger. "You know what would happen to her unguarded in this place at her age. She wouldn't make much more than a mouthful to whatever enterprising creature came along. Lucky for you, you brought her to me before anyone else could find you."

I jerk my chin out of Damien's hand, and see Hieronymous glare mutely at him.

Damien grins. "You're pretty far from any human territory. You had better just stay with me for a while. I'll keep you both safe." His voice is sly, conniving, and I feel myself bristle.

"If it's all the same to you," I say, doing my best to keep my tone measured, "we'd prefer to go."

"Well it _isn_ _'t_ all the same," Damien snaps, his grin instantly transformed into a scowl. "I'm responsible for the safety of my people, I can't have interlopers just wandering around, especially anyone connected with - with that _witch_!"

I can't let this pronouncement slide, and I lash out. "That _witch_?" I repeat, my voice cracking in the still room. "You mean the headmistress who taught you for four years? Who had every right to track you down and - and _kill_ you after what you did to Ahmed but for some reason let you live?" Damien's eyes narrow menacingly at me, but I can't seem to stop the words coming out of my mouth. "I don't even know what you're so worried about," I scoff. "I mean, you sure took care of _her_ , didn't you? With that - whatever it was you attacked her with."

For the briefest instant, Damien looks shocked. His features smooth out quickly but not so quickly that I don't immediately understand what's happening. _He doesn_ _'t realize what he's done to Professor Potsdam - he has no idea._

Even so, Damien's doing a masterful job of faking it. His jaw clenches. "Good," he says. "Good. She deserves what she got! I _told_ you that's what happens when you interfere with what I want!"

I glance at Hieronymous, but he isn't at all cowed by this speech. His eyes are narrowed, the line between his brows pronounced. "I would have said that your reaction was a bit out of proportion, myself," he says.

"Oh?" Damien says, frowning. "Well maybe that's why I'm a prince, and you're a-"

"Viscount, actually," Hieronymous says, which shuts Damien up mid-syllable. "But my particular title is beside the point. What is important is why on earth you might consider a batrichite attack to be commensurate punishment for standing in the way of your… romantic whim, should I call it?"

Damien whirls on him and strikes him across the face, so hard that Hieronymous rocks back. He manages to keep his feet, and give Damien a sardonic look that has me biting my cheeks to keep from laughing, even while my heart's in my throat.

"You don't speak to me that way!" growls Damien. " _Not_ in my own kingdom! _Not_ in my own palace! I could have you locked up until the flesh drops from your bones! I could do just what I did to that bat-faced hag!"

At this, I can no longer keep silent.. "You have no idea what you did to her, did you?" I say.

Hieronymous snorts. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, considering your record of paying attention in my class."

This time, I'm not tempted into laughter. "I went to _jail_ for you, you ass!" I yell, "And you don't even know what you _did_?"

"She brought it on herself!" Damien spits.

"She's still unconscious!" I retort, although I don't know if this is exactly true. Still, I have to assume she is, otherwise there's no way she'd allow Professor Terrec the run of Iris Academy. "She could have died because of you!"

Damien sets his jaw again, his chin wrinkling as he frowns fiercely. "And I'll do the same to him-" he starts, but I'm too disgusted to let him finish.

"No you can't! It wouldn't work," I say. "It doesn't work on humans."

"I'm only surprised it didn't affect you," Hieronymous says smoothly, picking up where I'd left off. "Batrachite is toxic to demons as well as the faerie, or didn't you know?"

At this, Damien smirks. "Not to me," he says.

"Which is quite odd," Hieronymous says. "Under normal circumstances, the offspring of a human and a demon-"

"Would have all the demon's weaknesses," Damien finishes. "But I don't."

"Ah," Hieronymous says, a satisfied smirk playing on his mouth. "So you really do believe you are some sort of chosen being. I thought so - thank you for confirming it."

Damien's smile drops. "I've _proven_ that I'm-"

"Yeah yeah," I say, "you're the demonic Kwisatz Haderach. So how many worlds have you conquered lately? Or are you still, like, mustering your thousand armies?"

Damien grabs me by the throat and shakes me, but his grip isn't strong enough that I'm more than slightly scared. "I _wish_ it had been you, you little bitch," he snarls, his face an inch from mine. "I would have had no problem killing _you_." He shoves me back, and then turns away from both of us. I watch his shoulders as he tries to calm himself - his breathing slows, and his posture improves. " _As it so happens_ ," he says, in a steady voice, hints of his mocking tone returning, "I lost the opportunity to have my kingdom handed to me. So instead, I took it. Everything you see, I obtained through sheer force of will." He turns back to me with a narrow, dangerous smile. "So I'd be careful who you started laughing at, ice princess."

"And you did this all without any assistance?" Hieronyous says, surveying the room with a critical expression. "I find that rather difficult to believe, if you don't mind me saying so."

Damien's calm is instantly eradicated. "What's it to you if I had help?" he snaps. " _Every_ king has help."

"Yes, and if he isn't careful, a king will find himself helped into an early grave," Hieronymous says.

"Is that a threat?" Damien says.

"Call it a warning, rather," Hieronymous says. "I have sincere doubts that Yves Terrec has your best interests at heart."

Damien's poker face isn't so good that I don't see a flicker of surprise on his features when Hieronymous says Professor Terrec's name. "I don't know who you're talking about," he says smoothly.

"Oh, now, I don't think that's true, Mr. Ramsey," Hieronymous says breezily. "And I think you're quite aware that Yves tends to work primarily towards his own interests, rather than anyone else's."

"I've heard that," Damien says, "but I've also heard that he rewards those who help _him_."

"So you do know him!" I exclaim, but Damien ignores me.

"And I think he'll be very interested when I tell him that I have you and your child bride locked up in my dungeons," Damien continues, tapping his chin with one long, slim finger. "Or maybe I won't. Maybe I'll just throw you both down there and let you starve. I honestly can't decide which would be more interesting." He cocks his head, grinning at both of us. "I could visit you every day, and listen to you beg. I wonder which one of you would sell the other for a crust of bread first? I think I'd bet on her," he says, pointing at me, "what do you think?"

I sigh, more weary and annoyed than I am frightened of Damien's threats. It figures that every time I visit the Otherworld, I'm threatened with some kind of torture. I don't see why everyone - besides my husband - seems to like it so much. "Do whatever you want," I say, not bothering to hide the disgust in my voice. "Just let me speak to Ahmed first."

The effect this request has on Damien is rather remarkable. He starts back, frowning fiercely. "Why should I?" he says.

I shrug. "I dunno, for fun? I mean, I'd appeal to your basic humanity and decency, if I thought you had any." Hieronymous shoots me a glare at this - I can tell he thinks I'm going too far, but I'm too tired to care. "But wouldn't it be fun for you? To watch me beg for his forgiveness and have him still pissed at me?" I sigh, and decide that where taunts don't work, the truth just might. "I just want to see him, just so I know he's okay."

Damien doesn't answer, and I feel a strange little worm of fear begin to wriggle in my stomach. "He _is_ okay, right?" I say. "I mean - I would have thought you'd be taunting me about him already, like, how much he likes it here, how much he doesn't miss me, how much he hates me for lying to him, but…" I trail off, thinking hard.

"Well he _doesn_ _'t_ miss you," Damien says, but his voice lacks some essential force.

"Let him tell me that himself, then," I say, trying to ignore that little worm, that seems to be burrowing deeper into my intestines. "Or are you scared that if he sees me, he'll want to leave you and come home?"

Damien doesn't answer me, but scowls, furiously.

"Or did he already leave?" I ask. "With all your grand manners and your palace and your servants, you couldn't even keep one sixteen year old guy happy? Did he leave you, Damien?" I ask again, my voice going shrill and piercing in the high-ceilinged room. "He _left_ you didn't he?" I have to clamp my jaw around the words I want to say next, the ones that I'm afraid will come true if I say them out loud - _and you killed him for it_.

Damien stalks to me, eyes seeming to spark in the glimmering light of the lanterns, and I think he's going to come over and hit me, the way he hit Hieronymous - or worse.

He doesn't hit me. Instead - to my utter astonishment - he bursts into tears.


	33. Chapter 33

I stare as Damien covers his face with both hands, his chest hitching, as he sounds a series of braying sobs that he can only half-muffle. I glance at Hieronymous, who looks back at me, his expression echoing the bewilderment I feel. Instinctively I think I should try to comfort Damien somehow, but it's difficult to pat someone on the shoulder with both hands tied behind one's back.

"Are you okay?" I ask tentatively.

Damien, who is struggling to get the sobs under control, uncovers his eyes. They blaze with hatred, and I find myself relaxing a little - at least I'm back on familiar ground.

"You don't know what it's been like!" he spits. "It's _torture_. I can't sleep, I can barely eat, I think about him _constantly_ , whether I want to or not! Every day without him is like - it's - it's like I'm _starving_! Do you have _any_ idea how that feels?"

I don't know how to respond. I suck my lips into my mouth, considering. "It sounds like… maybe… you're in love?" I say, hesitant.

"Well it's _awful_!" Damien shouts. "I don't know how your kind puts up with it!"

I shrug as best I can. "We just kind of do it," I say.

"Where is Mr. Al-Sharif?" Hieronymous asks, abruptly. "Did you return him to his family?"

Damien doesn't answer, but he looks at the floor. And with that look, he's no longer a prince - just a sulky child who has to own up to a wrong he's been trying to hide.

" _Answer_ me!" Hieronymous snaps, his voice ringing with his accustomed authority. "Have you or have you not seen him safely out of the Otherworld?"

Damien still doesn't answer, and Hieronymous's face contorts with fury. His wrists strain against the binds, and I begin to worry that he'll hurt himself if he's allowed to lose his temper. "Hieronymous-" I start, but he isn't listening.

"If I find," Hieronymous seethes, "that you have sent Mr. Al-Sharif into the Otherworld without protection-"

"No," Damien says quickly, and sadly. He's still looking at the floor, but gives a brisk shake of his head. "No. Nothing like that."

"Can't you just tell us?" I say, straining to keep my voice gentle and assured when what I really want is to grab Damien by the shoulders and shake him until his teeth snap. "Maybe we can help."

Damien considers me, eyes still narrowed and brimming with hate and suspicion. His jaw juts so that his sharp lower teeth protrude from under his lip. I try to clear my own face of suspicion, but can't quite think of what sort of expression would make me seem trustworthy.

"I think I'd better just show you," Damien says quietly, and then makes a gesture with one hand. The ties around my wrists fall away, and I gasp in relief when I'm able to stretch the aching muscles in my shoulders. "No spells behind my back," Damien warns us, "or I really will lock you up. Don't test me." Flicking his caftan around his ankles, he sweeps to the entrance of the room, which opens smoothly in front of him. Hieronymous follows, and I straggle after, trying to massage some feeling back into my hands as I go.

When we exit the sitting room, I'm treated to the sight of my very first full-blooded demon - and it's all I can do to keep from skidding to a halt and gawking at it - at _em_ \- in amazement.

The demon is about human height - taller than Damien but shorter than Hieronymous; much taller than me. E's extraordinarily broad - not fat, but wide, in a way that's entirely bone structure and muscle. Es skin is rough looking, almost leathery, and is a mottled shade of purplish blue. Es wings are enormous - unlike Damien's rather delicate looking wings, these look as though they would actually bear this demon aloft. For now, they're folded behind es back, the pointed tops rising several feet above es head.

I realize that I really am gawking, and give the demon an embarrassed smile. The demon responds by blinking at me, then reaching out and patting me on the head. "Well hello there little one," e says, and I recognize the voice of my captor.

"Hi," I say, and the demon gives me a huge grin.

"It talked again!" e squeals.

A swift movement beside me, and Damien appears in my peripheral vision. He scowls up at the demon. "Please don't… _pet_ the prisoners."

The demon looks flustered. "M-my apologies, your majesty," e stammers. "But _look_ at it! It's so _little_!" E beams at me, and I wince at em, trying to look as friendly as I can.

"Are we prisoners?" Hieronymous sounds cold, disinterested, but I hold my breath as Damien turns his eyes to my husband, considering.

"Guests, then," Damien says,his voice just as cold. "Don't pet the guests."

"Yes, your majesty," my captor says, giving an awkward bow. I follow Damien as he stalks away, but turn back to see my captor giving me a forlorn look as I step away from em.

The hallway Damien leads us down is at first grand and beautiful, decorated with multicolored tiles, and soaring columns. But when we turn a corner, the beauty of the corridor ends. Instead, we walk down a grim hallway lined with stark gray stone. It's clean, but not very well maintained - the mortar is crumbling, the floor cracked with age. I glance up at Hieronymous, who is surveying the scene himself. He flares his nostrils out a bit, and raises his eyebrows, then cuts his eyes down at me. I give him a half smile, and shrug.

Damien turns again, and we ascend a spiral staircase that climbs the wall of a circular turret. I begin to feel nervous about whether the stairs and walls will hold, but Damien appears supremely confident, walking so swiftly it's all I can do to keep up. I suppose that the walls might have more than mortar keeping them up, so I try not to think about the tower crashing down on my head and keep climbing.

We emerge into another hallway, and after a few turns, find ourselves in front of a door flanked by two more demons - who are in light armor, and appear to be guards. I give Hieronymous another glance, but he doesn't look back at me. He stares at the door, seeming troubled - frowning, with that line between his eyebrows dark again. I too feel nervous - it almost looks as though Ahmed is a prisoner here, and despite Damien calling us his guests, maybe we are, too.

The guards move aside, bowing as Damien walks to the door, seeming not to see them. One unlocks the door with a key, and pushes it open, holding it for us to enter.

I follow Damien into a large room that's dominated by a huge bed. The room, unlike the corridor outside, is beautiful, decorated with the same tiled pattern as Damien's sitting room. There are huge windows on one wall, but they're shrouded with thick, embroidered draperies, only letting in the tiniest amount of light. I squint in the dimness, and as my eyes adjust, I'm able to make out a single figure lying in the bed.

"Ahmed!" I gasp, and run forward, barely stopping myself from leaping onto the bed in my eagerness to see my friend.

If he hears me, Ahmed doesn't make any sign of it. He lies still, his hands unmoving on the coverlet.

I whirl around to see Damien's face, pale and drawn in the low light. "What's the matter?" I whisper. "Is he sick?"

"You don't have to whisper," Damien says in a normal tone of voice. "He can't hear you."

"He's gone _deaf_?" I shriek, turning back to Ahmed. He looks as though he might be asleep, although I can't quite tell in the dim light. "Ahmed!" I say, grabbing his arm and shaking it. "It's Eliza - wake up, okay?"

Ahmed doesn't move. I shake him again. "Ahmed!" I say.

"I've tried that," Damien says behind me, his voice sounding dull. I ignore him, and bend over Ahmed, lightly slapping his cheeks. "Tried that, too," Damien says.

I stand still, my palms pressing into the coverlet near Ahmed's arm. Part of me knows what he's going to say next, but I don't want to hear it - hearing would make it far too true.

A sudden noise behind me - the _schick_ of curtains being drawn - and a sickly yellow light pours into the room. "Don't!" yells Damien. "I haven't done those windows yet!" I turn to see Hieronymous by the window, which looks onto the desolate waste of the demons' part of the Otherworld, the endless space, the blasted, dead trees. Then I turn to Ahmed, and he seems as dead as the trees in this ghastly light. But then suddenly there's a movement - the tiniest movement of his chest rising, then falling under the covers.

I grab Ahmed's hand again, but it stays limp. "He's asleep?" I say.

"Yeah," comes Damien's terse reply.

"For how long?" Hieronymous's voice sounds behind me.

"Since I brought him here," Damien says. "No - since I took him through the Gate. I was holding him and he just went limp when I pulled him through. I took him here - I didn't know what else to do. Can - do you know what's wrong with him?" Damien's voice cracks as he asks the question.

I'm about to turn around and snap at Damien, ask him how on earth he expects me to figure out what's wrong with Ahmed - but Hieronymous speaks first, and his voice is oddly gentle.

"I cannot claim to be an expert in green magic," he says, "and I am certainly no physician. But I'll see what I can do." A pause, and then his voice again, just behind me. "Eliza."

For a moment, I'm not sure what he's speaking to me for, and then I realize - I'm in his way. I move aside, not able to look him in the eye, and join Damien by the wall near the window. There's a low, comfortable settee there, and I sink into it, suddenly feeling all of the exhaustion from the long day, the forced march, and this sudden, horrific discovery wash over me.

Damien remains standing in the shadow of the pulled curtain, watching as Hieronymous bends over Ahmed. Hieronymous moves his hands in the air, casting spell after spell. He pauses between each, tests Ahmed's pulse, considers for what feels like a long time, then tries another. Damien shifts uncomfortably at every spell, chewing on a thumbnail and huffing out his breath every time each spell doesn't make a difference in Ahmed's state. I huddle in the settee, hunching my shoulders, trying to make myself look as small and useless as I feel.

Soon, Damien begins to pace behind Hieronymous, who ignores the noise of Damien's footsteps as he continues to cast over and contemplate Ahmed's prone form. But soon, it seems that Damien can't wait any longer. "Well?" he bursts out as Hieronymous finishes another spell. "What's wrong with him? Haven't you figured it out yet?"

Hieronymous doesn't even glance at Damien, ignoring his rude and demanding tone. "I can't tell," he says, rubbing his mouth with one hand.

Damien makes an irritated "tsk" with his tongue, which seems to bother Hieronymous not in the least. My husband keeps his eyes on Ahmed, seeming simultaneously to look at him and through him with a dreamy sort of concentration. "I've really never seen anything like it," he says. "You said he lost consciousness immediately upon crossing the borders of our worlds?"

" _Yes_ ," Damien snaps, irritably. "But it wasn't supposed to go this way!"

"I can't imagine how you thought it would go," Hieronymous says, and now there's some ice in his voice. "Bringing someone so young into the Otherworld without sufficient protection is essentially a death sentence."

"You're one to talk," Damien says, and I see Hieronymous stiffen, his jaw clench. For a moment I wonder how on earth Damien could have heard about Violet before I realize that he's actually talking about me - how Hieronymous brought me into the Otherworld despite my age. Fortunately, before Hieronymous can say anything, Damien starts to speak.

"Anyway," he says, "I _had_ protection. Not just protection - it was my _right_ to bring him here safely! No one can stop me, and nothing can harm him!"

"Well, he certainly doesn't seem unharmed," Hieronymous says, and Damien whirls on him. Desperate to prevent an altercation that would land the two of us in a dungeon - or worse - I pipe up.

"Well - he wasn't harmed exactly, was he?" I say. "I mean, if he's just asleep-"

I realize how stupid this sounds as soon as the words exit my mouth, but Hieronymous turns to me, brows furrowed, as though I've said something interesting.

"And nothing attacked you when you brought Mr. Al-Sharif over the border?" he asks Damien.

Damien puffs with indignation. "In my realm, no one would _dare_ -" he starts, but Hieronymous blows past him to stand in front of me.

"And you said that this abduction occurred on the night of October thirty-first?"

"Yeah," I say, "at the Dark Dance, but-" I don't know what to say next, but as it turns out, I don't need to say anything. Hieronymous heaves a disgusted sounding sigh and rubs his forehead with one hand.

"I'm being a complete idiot," he mutters, then rounds on Damien. "The Samhain rite - is that it? You thought you could just bring him over using the Samhain rite?"

Damien looks as though Hieronymous has just upended his entire palace. "It's supposed to be safe!" he splutters. "He promised that if I brought him over on Samhain, no harm could come to him while he was in the Otherworld!"

Hieronymous snorts. "And by 'he,' I assume you mean your benefactor, Yves Terrec, do you not?"

Damien avoids Hieronymous's eyes, and says "I don't have to tell you who advises me."

Hieronymous lets out another sigh - resigned rather than disgusted - and slumps onto the settee next to me. I watch as he rubs both palms over his face, and notice that he seems tired, his skin paler and more sallow than usual, the dark spots under his eyes more pronounced. He keeps his eyes closed as he says "it is true that when one follows the Samhain rite, the young human one brings to the Otherworld is protected from all harm. However, there are further complications to its use." He gives Damien a sharp look, then. "I can assume you have not engaged in any secondary magical education, and thus are entirely ignorant of the history of magical civilization?"

Damien blinks, looks fierce, and then puzzled. "What does that have to do with-"

"Only that magical humans came about with the union of humans and those faerie beings sufficiently similar in terms of genetics to be able to produce offspring," Hieronymous says, barreling over Damien's protests. "And the means by which they effected such unions included Samhain rites, and those like them. However, the faerie preferred to engage in the requisite - activities - in the comfort of their own habitats, that is, the Otherworld. And those humans considered desirable for such engagement - particularly in times of relatively low lifespans - tended to be far too young to bring over in safety."

As Hieronymous says this, something clicks in my head. I blurt "those are the sacrifices!" and both Damien and Hieronymous give me incredulous looks, and I flush. "It was in my history book," I explain. "It said people engaged in human sacrifice at Samhain." The excitement over my revelation carries me straight to its logical conclusion. "But they weren't, like, _death_ sacrifices, they were _sex_ ones!" I realize what I've said just after I say it, and my cheeks go so hot that I'm sure I've just turned fuchsia.

Damien looks deeply uncomfortable, but Hieronymous only says "just so," as though I've just answered a question correctly in class.

"At any rate," Hieronymous continues, "the means by which faerie paramours ensured their selected human's safety was an enchanted sleep - one which rendered the target all but untraceable to those Otherworld beings that might seek to harm it. This had the additional advantage of ensuring that the human in question did not become frightened of the strange goings-on that routinely take place in magical realms. Consequently, the enchanted sleep would continue for the remainder of the human's stay in the Otherworld."

"But," I say, suddenly outraged, "they can't just do that - put someone to sleep and then, like, have sex with them - that's rape!"

"I quite agree with you," Hieronymous replies mildly, "however, our notion of consent and that of a thousand years ago is rather different. In fact, I believe that the human in question was considered to have given their consent when they agreed to travel to the Otherworld with the faerie that selected him, her or em - which is an essential part of the ritual."

I remember now - Damien's despite pleas to Ahmed to say yes, to consent to travel with him, and I give Damien a horrified look. "You _didn't_ -"

" _No_!" Damien shouts, "I didn't, and you can keep your nasty accusations to yourself, ice princess!"

I settle back onto the settee, but glare at Damien to make sure he knows he's not off the hook just yet.

"Well," Damien says, "do you know how to fix it?"

"Hmm?" Hieronymous says vaguely.

"Do you _know_ ," Damien says, enunciating each word, "how to wake him up?"

"Oh," Hieronymous says. "Of course."

I let out a breath I hadn't even realized I was holding. "Really?" I squeak. "And he'll be fine?"

"Certainly," Hieronymous says.

"Well?" Damien says, "what do we do?"

Hieronymous doesn't answer. Both Damien and I stare at him, leaning forward.

"What _is_ it?" snaps Damien.

"I'll tell you," Hieronymous says, and then says nothing.

Damien and I glance at each other, then back at Hieronymous, who doesn't meet either of our eyes.

"I'll tell you," Hieronymous repeats, "on one condition."

"Well?" Damien says, with a dangerous tone to his voice.

Hieronymous closes his eyes and lets out one quiet breath. "I believe your kind has a legend," he says, "regarding a creature which lives near your realm and was responsible for granting demons the power of magic."

"Yes?" Damien says, frowning. I frown too - what on earth does Emmy's creature have to do with helping Ahmed?

"I'll tell you how to help Mr. Al-Sharif," Hieronymous says, "if you take Eliza to it."

I'm so shocked that all I can do is stare at Hieronymous with my mouth half open.

Damien's frown deepens, and his brows knit. "You're telling me that you won't help my boyfriend unless I help you - what, blaspheme my religion?"

I glance up at Damien with a jolt. Although I had thought of the Pentateuch upon reading the old fairy tale, it hadn't occurred to me that any demons - Damien in particular - would take the story as seriously as a religion. I feel uncomfortable and ashamed of myself, as though I'd just been caught making nasty comments about someone without realizing they were standing right behind me.

"Eliza has lost her magical ability," Hieronymous says, still not looking at either of us, "and we have reason to believe that this… entity may be able to help her."

Damien squints at me, pinching his chin. Suddenly, he doesn't seem so much like a student. He seems like a leader - royal and remote, capable of declaiming the fates of men with a word. I try to surprises a shiver.

"I could just throw you in the dungeon until you decided to cooperate," Damien says. "Why don't you give me one good reason why I shouldn't?"

My jaw clenches, and I watch as Damien squares off in front of Hieronymous. With his regal posture, Damien looks as though he could easily beat anyone in a battle of wills, particularly the exhausted man half slumped on the settee before him.

But then Hieronymous cuts his eyes up to look at Damien, and they catch the light in pinpoints of red. "It would take much longer," is all he says. The two stare at each other for long enough that my eyes go prickly from trying not to blink.

"Fine," Damien says. "We'll go first thing in the morning. Soon enough for you?"

"I think so," Hieronymous says.

"Then promise me." Damien says. "Promise that if I take Eliza to the caves, you'll tell me what to do."

I hold my breath for the moment of silence, waiting for Hieronymous to decide whether to risk his magic in a promise to a demon.

"You have my word," Hieronymous says, but instead of looking up at Damien, he glances at me, and his formerly stoic expression cracks, revealing something like fear.


	34. Chapter 34

We follow Damien out of Ahmed's room in silence, my heartbeat sounding in my ears like footsteps. Once we're in the stone corridor, Damien snaps his fingers once. There's a pause, and then a rumbling. Two large demons come charging up the spiral staircase, one following the other. I watch their progress, fascinated at how the castle doesn't fall crumbling around their ears. As they approach, I recognize one of them as my captor - not because I can easily distinguish em from the other demon, but because e keeps sneaking glances at me as e sweeps into a low bow before Damien.

Damien himself is back to acting entirely royal. He looks over his much taller demon guards with an imperious air, tilting his head to one side as though inspecting them.

"Have the stables start preparations," he says. "We will be going to the Caves of the Shapeless at first light, tomorrow."

"Oh!" my captor says, an expression of delight on es face. "Your majesty! The pilgrimage at last?"

The other guard elbows my captor fiercely in the ribs, but Damien doesn't deign to notice the outburst. He turns, head still cocked to one side, to consider Hieronymous and me. "As for these two..." he starts, with the beginnings of a nasty-looking smile growing on his face, "take them to the _guest_ room. They can spend the night there."

" _Ohhh_ ," my captor whines, and Damien gives em a sharp look.

"What?" Damien says.

"Well," my captor says, squirming a little, and ignoring the not-very-surreptitious kicks e's receiving from es guard partner, "I just thought that maybe since I was the one that found it, it could sleep in my room? I'd feed it and everything!"

" _No_ ," say Damien and Hieronymous together. They turn to glare at each other, and my captor, ignored, flutters es wings nervously.

Damien breaks the impasse by striding forward to me, that nasty grin back on his face.

"Why don't we just go now?" I ask Damien. "I'm ready."

"But I'm not," Damien purrs, "and I think your husband isn't either. You might as well get some sleep and start fresh in the morning." He reaches out and pinches my chin again. "Enjoy your night… ice princess." He lets me go, chuckles, and sweeps away, striding down the hall. I move to follow him, opening my mouth to shout at his retreating back, but am stopped by a huge hand that grips my arm.

"'Fraid you'll have to come with me," says the demon - not my captor, the other one - who has hold of me. I think I recognize es voice as the other demon who had captured us upon our arrival to the Otherworld - the two must be assigned together or something.

"Come on!" my captor says, squatting slightly, es hands resting on his knees, as though he were really calling a kitten. "come on to me, now!"

"Shut up," es companion says. "Let's take 'em to the guest room." E begins dragging me along by the arm before I manage to get my feet under me to keep pace with em.

The demon half leads, half pulls me down the hallway, in the opposite direction of the spiral staircase we'd gone up before. I try to look back to see what Hieronymous is doing, but the demon jerks my arm every time I turn my head in order to get me to move faster, and I can't manage even a glimpse.

I'm left to fret over what on earth Damien means by a "guest room." Judging from his nasty smile, it can't be anything pleasant. I picture a dungeon like at school - or worse, one of those anonymous white cells in jail. Just the thought sends my nerves jangling, and my mouth goes cotton-dry.

I don't have long to wait to see what's in store for me. The guards take us to a bend in the hall, and then steer us to face another door. The demon holding my arm lets me go, then produces an enormous set of keys, and uses one of them to unlock the door.

The entrance reveals neither a dungeon nor a cell, but a spacious room with a vaulted ceiling. The wall opposite the door features a row of windows, and beneath them rests a long, low sofa. The walls are tiled in bright colors, similar to Damien's sitting room. There's even a little fountain bubbling in the exact center of the room, inside its own miniature pool.

I have just enough time to take this in before I'm pushed - gently, but firmly - into the room. I teeter on my feet, and have just enough time to whirl around and see Hieronymous pushed in before the door is shut behind us. A scuffling, and then the door opens again, but only a crack.

"We'll make sure some food's sent up," my captor says. "Sorry!"

The door shuts again, and there's the unmistakable sound of the key being turned in the lock, footsteps moving away from the door, and then silence.

"Well," I say, "here we are."

"So it would seem," Hieronymous replies. He doesn't appear inclined to speak further, so I busy myself with investigating our room. It really is lovely - sumptuous, even. The windows are of paneled glass, patterned in a star shaped mosaic, but the real surprise comes when I look out of them.

"Are we somewhere else?" I ask. The view from the windows shows a landscape entirely different from the blasted wastes I remember seeing in Ahmed's room. It's a desert, but it's a pretty, cinematic type desert, with tawny dunes rising like friendly humpbacked animals out of the sand, and little oases dotting the landscape at irregular intervals.

"No," says Hieronymous curtly. "The windows are enchanted - watch." He moves one hand, and the desert landscape vanishes to reveal the yellow waste and twisting trees that I remember. I frown - the other landscape was much nicer - but I have to admit that it's a little creepy, not being able to see exactly what's out your window, so I decide not to protest. Instead, I start a circuit around the room's tiled walls. There's a dip in the vaulted ceiling supported by columns, making a sort of walkway along three sides of the room. Between two of the columns, I find a sort of niche, and go through it to find a door that leads to a bathroom - there's a basin with faucets and a pool, already filled with warm water, and a closet that I assume contains a toilet. But what I seize upon on entering is a little cup on a shelf filled with sticks with frayed ends. I grab one, decide it'll be a more than serviceable toothbrush, and start scrubbing the inside of my mouth with it at the basin. There isn't any toothpaste that I recognize, but a little bottle of some sort of liquid that smells like licorice that I use to wash the taste of demon handkerchief from my mouth at last.

Once my mouth is as clean and as licorice-tasting as I can make it, I decide I can use a bit more washing up. It's warm in the room, so I take off my sweater, boots and tights, until I'm wearing just the black skirt and t-shirt Emmy had given me yesterday. I scrub my face and hands in the basin, then hike up my skirt to dangle my sore feet and legs in the bath. There's an array of unlabeled but extremely interesting bottles of oil, cream and sundry unguents, and I occupy myself with experimenting with them, trying to guess which of them might be hand cream and which hair conditioner. They all have a subtle, spicy scent to them that I like very much, and I consider smuggling one or two of them out with me when we leave - whenever that might be.

When I enter the main room again, a table has appeared near the sofa, with a tray atop it. The tray is packed with food, plates, silverware, two crystal glasses and two matching carafes, one filled with clear and one gold liquid. I move toward the table with sudden interest, my stomach growling at the sight.

"One moment, please," says Hieronymous. "I'll need to test it before you eat anything."

This stops me in my tracks. "You don't think he'd try to poison us, do you?" I ask.

Hieronymous snorts. "I doubt that very much. It wouldn't be enough..." he pauses reaching for a word. "Fun," he concludes. "But Otherworld food can be tricky, and it's best to be cautious."

Hieronymous begins a spell, weaving his hands in a complicated pattern above the food. "Most Otherworld food is quite innocuous," he explains as he continues the spell, "but there are some items which have a peculiar effect. Once tasted, the human who has eaten it is no longer satisfied with the taste of any other food again. Es life will be a constant search for that taste, and even if e is successful in finding it, the satisfaction lasts for only an instant - and then the search begins again." He steps back, examining the tray, moving around the table to peer at the fruit, bread, vegetables and cheese on the tray. "Fortunately, it seems that nothing of that sort has been presented to us today. Please help yourself."

My appetite is significantly impaired by the thought of becoming addicted to some strange sort of fairy food, so I pick up a plate and place items on it with considerably less gusto than I would have five minutes before. Even so, when I settle myself on the sofa to eat, the food is fresh and very delicious - better than anything I've had since leaving Kip's safehouse. I take cautious bites of a bright orange persimmon, eating it like an apple, and finding it crunchy and sweet.

Hieronymous doesn't seem very interested in the food. He takes one bite of a small roll, and begins to shred the rest between his long fingers. When I pour myself a glass of what turns out to be cold water from one of the carafes, he takes the other carafe and examines it in the slowly dimming light that comes in through the windows.

"I don't suppose you want any of this?" he says to me, and I shake my head. I've seen enough weird stuff today to add wine - which is what I assume it is - to the mix. He pours himself a half glass and tastes it, his eyebrows lifting as he rolls the liquid in his mouth.

"Good?" I ask.

He shrugs. "More than adequate for a demon's table, I should think." He fills the rest of the glass and leans back on the sofa, eyes half shut. He doesn't bother with food after that.

The light from the window dims from sickly yellow to the livid pink of a boil. As the light dims further, little lanterns that hang in the lower part of the ceiling begin to glow, flickering with little flames that grow larger and brighter. I sneak glances at Hieronymous as I finish eating. The dimming light only makes him look worse, accentuating the sallow pallor of his skin, the purple bruises under his eyes, the dark slash between his brows. Damien was right - he's certainly far too tired to travel now, and I hate that it was Damien, and not me, who saw it first. I put my empty plate back on the tray and sit with my hands in my lap for some time before I can find the words I want to say.

"Um," is what I say at last. "Thanks. For getting Damien to take us to the cave."

Hieronymous doesn't answer.

"It was great of you," I say. "Considering."

Nothing from Hieronymous. I glance at him and can only tell his eyes are open by the fact that the dying light from the window is reflected on their surface.

I swallow. "Listen," I say, "about what I said back in the library-"

"Please don't bother," Hieronymous says, his voice quiet in the gathering dark.

"I'm not gonna pretend I didn't say it," I say with a sudden fierceness. "It was awful of me. It was ugly. It-"

"Was true," Hieronymous finishes.

I clench my hands in my lap and close my eyes, the backs of the lids smarting. "It's - not a very nice truth," is all I can think of to say.

"I think I mentioned to you that I'm not a very nice person," Hieronymous says. He drains his glass and pours another, then leans back against the sofa again. I remain silent, my hands clenched, my breath stopped in my throat. We sit like this, me stiff-backed on the edge of the sofa, he propped against its back, more than an arm's length away, until the outside light has almost entirely faded from the room and I can only see him by the inconsistent flickering of the lanterns.

There's a movement as Hieronymous leans forward again, setting his glass - empty again - on the little table. He doesn't lean back again, but rests his elbows on his knees, letting his hair swing into his face. "Eliza," he says, "I'm going to ask you not to do this."

I make a sound in the back of my throat as I jerk my head up. "Do what?" I ask.

" _This_ ," he says testily. "Go to that cave. Play-act this - this fairy-story. Do you know what happens to people in fairy-stories?"

"Some of them live happily ever after," I venture.

"Some of them die," he responds.

I let out a long breath through my teeth. "I can't argue about this again," I say. "I've made my decision. For me it's either do this or forget everything, and I just can't do that. I don't think I'll get killed. Emmy wasn't - she wasn't even hurt."

"Not physically."

I press my lips together. Was it really that creature that caused Emmy to become so vague - or the memory spells - or both? "That's just a risk I'll have to take," I conclude.

Hieronymous turns his head slightly, his face still obscured by his hair. "Do you mean that?" he asks.

"Yes," I say, feeling half defiant and half sick.

Hieronymous stays still then, seeming to watch me behind his curtain of hair. "Would it change your mind if I told you something?" he says, his voice low and even. He draws a long, shuddery breath. "There was a time when I sought that out for myself."

"To… forget?" I say. "To get your mind erased?"

He nods. "After-" he starts, then stops abruptly. I wait, but he doesn't continue. It's a few moments before I realize to what he's referring - and that he can't bring himself to say Violet's name out loud.

"It's okay," I say. "I know what you mean. You don't have to say it."

He sighs - whether from relief or annoyance, I can't tell - but he continues.

"After - _that_ ," he says, "when I finally came back to myself and fully understood what had happened, I begged my father to allow me to face what I was sure would be a very serious punishment. Going through the Gate while underage - taking another underage person with me, with no adult accompaniment - it isn't a criminal offense, but it is one that would assure my expulsion from any reputable magical school. And with expulsion from school comes the requisite expulsion from society. A new life for myself, without magic, without memory - where I didn't have to think of how she looked when-" He stops speaking and presses one hand to his mouth, as though trying to keep the words from coming out. He takes a few breaths before continuing.

"Naturally, my father refused, and he used the full force of his political connections to ensure that I did not even face an inquiry at school. At the time, I was rather confused at this unexpected solicitude - I had never experienced it in other interactions with my father. Now, of course, I know why he did it. He was raising me for livestock - and the prize pig could not be slaughtered before its time." Hieronymous spits these words, as though they sting his mouth. "As it was, I only knew that if I stayed in England, I would find no one who would dare go against my father's will and punish me in the way I deserved. So I left."

"Do you mean to find someone who'd - erase you?" I say. "Are there people who do that?"

"I considered finding someone in authority who was used to working out logistics for that sort of thing," Hieronymous replies. "The head of a school, for example, has both the experience and resources necessary to perform such a reassignment for students from magical families who require expulsion for one reason or another. Barring that, it was possible that I could find someone not quite so reputable who would be willing to perform the required spells in exchange for part of the savings I managed to bring with me. And if that didn't work," he pauses here, sucking his teeth, "I supposed that suicide might be a reasonable option."

Despite the warmth of the room, I feel suddenly cold - not from what Hieronymous just said, but the matter-of-fact way he'd said it. I take stock of the tension in my face, wondering if I've betrayed my distress, even though objectively, I'm aware that he isn't looking at me. Only when I'm sure I can trust my voice to remain calm do I say "what changed your mind?"

"Nothing particularly noble or courageous," he answers, after a pause. "Relief, I suppose, at finding myself in a new country, where no one knew who I was, or what - what I'd done. I walked onto a magical university campus hoping to find someone who would put me out of my misery - and walked off having agreed to matriculate." He smiles faintly at his own inconsistency, but the smile fades almost immediately.

"I felt a sort of obligation as well," he says. "As though if I gave up on my own life, such as it was - and whether by renouncing my magic and memories, or my life altogether - if I ever saw her again, on whatever plane of existence that might entail, I wouldn't be able to-" He stops, shakes his head. He doesn't finish the sentence, but says instead, "that isn't to say the temptation isn't still there."

"Why do you want me to give up then?" I ask, "when you didn't make that choice yourself?"

Hieronymous clicks his tongue. "You don't have any obligations, Eliza. You don't even have a family here. Don't put yourself through this hell just because of some misguided sense of social justice. There's nothing to keep you. You could be free of all of it"

I consider this, rolling the idea around my head in the same way Hieronymous had rolled the wine in his mouth. "Before I left you in England, I asked you if you were going to be okay, and you told me not to worry," I say. "But you haven't been very okay, have you?"

Hieronymous gives a small shrug, the motion so slight as to be hardly visible in the dim light.

"Why didn't you tell me?" I ask, my voice coming out breathy and weak. "All those letters you wrote me like nothing was wrong-"

Hieronymous gives a mirthless little breath of half laughter. "I suppose I didn't want to worry you," he says.

I open my mouth, but I'm too stunned by this disclosure to make a sound. The thought that Hieronymous had been censoring his own letters, just as I had mine gives me an odd, hollow feeling in my chest that's half sadness and half relief. "Should I be worried?" is what I finally ask.

"I don't know," he says. "All I can tell you is that - for now - I'm still here."

I swallow. "Then let me see you," I say.

Hieronymous doesn't move, or speak.

"All right," I say, "I'm coming over there." I clamber onto the sofa on all fours, despite the fact that my long skirt is threatening to trip me up, or at least hike itself over my thighs to an indiscreet level. I manage to crawl over to where Hieronymous is sitting in a few strides, all the while very much aware that I'm not being in the least bit graceful or fetching. Still, Hieronymous doesn't move away as I approach.

When I'm close enough, I reach my hand out, and with my first two fingers, pull his hair back, as though I were drawing back a drapery. His mouth is set, eyes open and dry. He blinks once.

"Look at me," I say. I have to balance on my knees to lift my other hand so I can put my fingers on his jaw and pull it toward me, and the perch is precarious. Hieronymous doesn't fight my hands, but turns his head toward me. I cup his jaw in both hands, and wait until his eyes meet mine.

"Thank you for telling me," I say, brushing one stray black lock from his forehead.

"But," he replies, with a twist of his mouth.

I nod, letting out a huff of laughter. "But," I agree, "I'm not going anywhere."

Hieronymous lowers his eyes and sighs through his nose. "I ought to have known."

Now is the time to sit back down on the sofa, but I'm not quite ready to let Hieronymous go while he's being cooperative about me touching him. I open my mouth, not quite sure what to say next, when a sudden popping sound startles me. I whip my head toward the sound, but there isn't any danger - it's the table that held our food being teleported from the room, and air rushing to take its place. Nevertheless, the sound is loud enough and close enough that I lose my balance and topple forward, nearly falling onto the floor. Hieronymous only just manages to catch me by the forearms, pulling me away from the edge of the sofa until I'm practically in his lap.

"I'm sorry!" I squeak. I search his face for signs of irritation, but can't seem to read his expression. His grip on my arms is so tight that I wouldn't be able to squirm away, even if I wanted to. As it is, I'm frozen in place, half terrified and half fascinated by this sudden proximity. I hold my breath, waiting for him to push me to the side, but he doesn't. Instead, he lets out a breath, closes his eyes, and leans his forehead against mine.

I take a second to process this, and then before I really register what I'm doing, I have my arms around his neck and am kissing him. And, far stranger than that, he's kissing me.

I'm so tired from the events of the day and shocked by this sudden development that I feel half outside of myself, as though part of me is watching from somewhere near the ceiling as Hieronymous shifts, places his palm flat on my sternum and pushes me down upon the sofa cushions. He's heavy on top of me, and I don't seem to mind.

What follows is a confusion of sensations that seem to have no connection to each other. There's a rough scratch of his sweater beneath my palms as I try to figure out where to put my hands, the brush of his hair against my face, his teeth scraping my lower lip. There's hot breath in my ear, the sound of his voice - "Is this all right?" - and someone who doesn't sound like me gasping "yes," as the tips of his fingers slide up my thigh. There's pressure, the ball of his thumb rolling over the jutting bone of my hip, the salt of one of his fingers in my mouth. His tongue tracing the dip of my suprasternal notch. My heart, suddenly a bird, beating itself to death against my ribcage.

All the while, the part of me that's hovering near the ceiling is watching this activity with an almost metallic clarity. I realize that we could become lovers right now. It would be easy - as easy as sinking into a pool of warm water, and more pleasant. But there's something about the way his fingers grip my wrist and press it into the sofa cushion, something about the rapidity of his breath and the way he lets his teeth rasp over my skin that stops me from sinking all the way down.

I open my eyes a fraction to watch his eyelashes, stark black against his skin, twitch slightly. I stretch my neck to let him run his mouth along my jaw. I open my eyes wide, and what I see out the window next to me is the black velvet of the night sky studded with cold, crystal stars. They seem closer than any I've ever seen on earth, but also older, wiser, more terrible. And with their sight comes the thought, stabbing into my head - _this isn_ _'t passion. It's desperation_.

I turn my head away from the terrible light of those stars, burying my cheek in the cushion. "Hieronymous," I say, "stop."

Hieronymous stops. The sudden chill on my neck tells me that he's holding his breath. My face crumples as I realize what I've just given up, but it's too late to go back.

"I don't think this is a good idea right now," I say in a quavery voice. I stare at the flickering lantern lights, and try not to imagine the expression on his face. My chest heaves and my breath hitches as I say, "I just - think that maybe we should - think about this - a little before we-"

"You're right." His voice low, breath soft on my neck. "I'm sorry."

I squeeze my eyes shut as he moves away, only cold air now where his hands had been.

The sofa is large enough that when he stretches out on one side, and I curl up on the other, we're far enough away from each other that there's no chance of us touching.

I lie awake for a long time.


	35. Chapter 35

I wake in the early morning to find myself alone on the sofa. By the sound of it, Hieronymous is in the bathroom washing up. I roll onto my side toward the window, watching as the strange sickly light illuminates the wasteland outside. It seems the color of my own mood.

When Hieronymous relinquishes the bathroom, I duck inside without looking him in the face, sighing with relief as I close the door behind me. After taking care of the necessary matters and brushing my teeth, I take full advantage of the large bathing pool. I find the warm water very inviting, until I remember what I'd thought last night, about sinking into a warm pool of water. After that, I scrub myself all over and get out in a hurry.

When I emerge, I find another table - breakfast, this time - before the sofa. Hieronymous is sipping from a cup of what smells like coffee and examining the tile pattern on one of the far walls. "I don't know who Damien's decorator is," he says, "but I think all this would give Edward Said the howling fantods."

I blink, not understanding whatever he's trying to say. Hieronymous, realizing that his attempt at levity has failed, turns back to the tile without further comment. I sit on the sofa and concentrate on picking up food, putting it in my mouth, chewing it, and swallowing. Pick up, put in mouth, chew, swallow. It keeps me from thinking too much.

When a set of guards, a different pair this time, come to fetch us, I'm more than ready to leave the room. I follow the two demons obediently, not looking back at Hieronymous, though I hear his footsteps close behind me on the stone floor of the hall.

By the time we reach the ground floor, I'm already marveling at how the palace has come to life. The formerly still stone corridors are teeming with demons running back and forth on various errands. The bustle increases as we're led through a set of large doors into the outer courtyard, and we see a huge mass of demons - some crowded around an enormous box with curtains on it, some shouting out orders in a guttural language, but most of them armed and performing what look like drills in a massive formation. They march, their feet making thunderous sounds as they hit the ground in unison. And then, at some cue I don't quite catch, they all begin to hit their shields with their swords, a clashing sound of metallic thunder. Then each of them raise their swords over their heads and roar as one before marching on.

The spectacle and the noise startle me so much, that I turn to Hieronymous, forgetting to be embarrassed. "That's an army, isn't it?" I say.

"It appears so," Hieronymous responds in a low, level voice. He's looking at something else, and I follow his gaze to see Damien, looking every inch the king, in an elevated chair, watching the progress of the army drill with a critical eye. He's resplendent in a set of robes, as richly embroidered as the ones he'd worn yesterday. I suddenly feel very shabby in the clothes I've worn for three days in a row now. I consider asking Hieronymous if he can magic them clean, but now that the shock at seeing the army has worn off, I feel too awkward to say anything.

A sudden noise behind me makes me whirl around. "Look!" says a familiar voice, "there it is!"

When I locate the source of the sound, I see that it's my demon captor, crouched again, and whistling at me. "Here, little one!" e says, and makes little kissing noises.

I consider the choice set before me - stay here with my husband or go over to the demon. One glance at Hieronymous's expression as he watches the army's progress decides me. I walk to the demon.

"There!" e says to es companion when I approach. "I told you it was smart!"

"Will you shut up about that scruffy little thing?" es companion snarls, and stalks off in disgust. My captor watches em go with such a forlorn expression on es face that, absurdly, I begin to feel a little sorry for em.

"Hi," I say to the demon. "What's your name?"

E looks flustered, but a little pleased. "I'm Bruno," e says.

"Hi Bruno. I'm Eliza." I reach out my hand to shake, but Bruno seems not to know what to do about it, so e just gives it a little pat.

"Well," I say, turning toward the scene in the courtyard, "this is all really impressive."

"Isn't it?" Bruno says with a fangy grin. "We've all been working very hard."

"Oh," I say, nodding exaggeratedly. "I can really tell! So. Uh. Do you mind if I ask you something?"

"Certainly," Bruno says, giving me a pat on the head.

I consider my options, but eventually decide to go with the question that's been bothering me the most ever since my inopportune arrival in the Otherworld. "How come you speak English?"

"Eeeehhnn-" Bruno says uncertainly, and then es eyes light up. "Ohhh! Oh, I don't speak human language. This is a spell."

"Oh?" I say.

"Yes - ah, his majesty isn't very good at speaking the demon tongue," Bruno says, looking as though it pains em to admit it. "All the palace guards have to be enspelled so he can understand us."

"Huh," I say, looking over the courtyard at Damien. He looks as regal as ever in his chair high above the drilling mass of demon army. "So - uh, do you… like having Damien as your king?"

"Yes!" Bruno says brightly. "I'm so blessed to be part of his army! The atrocities suffered by my people will soon be washed away in torrents of blood." E gives me a genial smile.

"Oh," I say, "okay."

"It's so good that you came here," Bruno says. "You're what convinced his majesty to go on the Pilgrimage, aren't you?

"On the-" I start.

"Pilgrimage! To the caves?"

"Oh! Right. Uh. I guess we did. Kind of."

"The stories say that the time of reckoning will be at hand when the great leader pays homage at the Caves of the Shapeless," Bruno says, "and leads his army into glorious battle against those who would oppress us."

"So you're in the army?" I ask.

Bruno blushes a mottled purple. "Not exactly. I'm in the royal guard though, and that's close!" Es chest puffs with sudden pride. "I was chosen to go along to the caves today - such an honor! I think it's because I helped to bring you in - you and the filthy human wizard."

It's a moment before I realize that the filthy human wizard is my husband. I glance back to see him watching Bruno and me with narrowed eyes. He glances away when my eyes meet his. "So am I not a filthy human wizard too?" I say, trying and failing to hold back a smirk.

""We-ell," Bruno says, "that's what everyone else says you are. But… I don't know. You're so _little_." E pats me on the head again.

It strikes me that as far as demons go, Bruno might not be very bright. "What about Damien?" I ask. "He's part human. Is he filthy?"

"Oh _no_!" Bruno says, es yellow eyes going wide. "He's bred to his purpose!"

"And what's his purpose?"

"Slaughter!" Bruno's eyes crinkle amiably as e says this.

I puff a breath out of my cheeks. "Of humans?"

"Humans, fairies - all those who drove the demons out of our ancestral lands," Bruno says. "It's taken a long time, but now, under his majesty, they'll pay." E gives a contented sigh. "I'm so lucky to be alive in his time."

I don't know what to say in response. It seems as though Hieronymous was right - the inevitable consequence of all of these machinations is just what he'd said: war. But if what he theorized about Professor Terrec was right - if he was the one who set Damien on his throne in order to start this war - why on earth would Professor Terrec set Damien up to go to war against fairies if Professor Terrec is himself a fairy? I consider that he might be a demon in disguise, but something about the idea doesn't quite wash.

Bruno makes a sudden, sweeping bow, which is how I realize that Damien's approaching me from behind. I whirl around to see that he's only a few paces away.

"Well ice princess," he says, "did you enjoy your night?"

"It was fine," I say, trying with all my might to keep my expression neutral. It occurs to me now that Damien might have some sort of magical surveillance on his guest room, and if he did, he might have watched the entire scene between Hieronymous and myself last night. Just the thought of that makes me want to retch the contents of my stomach onto his fancy embroidered slippers. But Damien's expression remains neutral, and he doesn't gloat, which is what I assume he'd be doing if he had seen us. I allow myself to relax, just a touch.

"We'll be leaving in just a few minutes," Damien says. "Are you ready?"

"Sure," I say. "Are we gonna telep-"

"Hssst!" Damien's shushing is so frantic that I snap my mouth shut at the sound. Damien looks over my shoulder at Bruno."Don't you have preparations to be making?" he snaps.

"Yes, your majesty! Sorry, your majesty!" Bruno backs away, bowing frantically. Damien takes my arm and leads me away from the rest of the royal guard.

"No talk about teleportation unless you want to get strung up," Damien hisses in my ear. "It's bad enough I'm taking you two there already, I had to tell the generals that I was taking you to sacrifice you or something."

"You're not going to though, right?" I gasp in horror.

" _No_ ," Damien snaps. "As fun as that would be, ice princess, Ahmed's life means more to me than petty amusements."

I'm not sure how I feel about Damien considering human sacrifice to be a "petty amusement," but I don't say anything.

"Teleportation to the caves is absolutely forbidden," Damien mutters. "It's considered disrespectful - we have to approach using non-magical means as a symbol of our humbling ourselves before the power of that creature. After all, it was the one that gave us our magic in the first place."

"I thought you were some kind of demon messiah," I reply. "Can't you just do what you want?"

Damien snorts. "Hardly. I have to work within the rules of the religion that put me in place. Otherwise, what's to stop all of them from deciding I'm not the chosen one after all?"

I consider this. "That makes sense," I admit. "Still-"

Whatever I was going to say is stricken from my mind at the sound of my husband's voice. "And what are you two whispering about?" he says, sounding nettled.

Damien turns around, keeping my arm clamped tightly in his. "Wouldn't you like to know, _sir_ ," he says, with a nasty smirk.

Hieronymous scowls, and my heart gives a sudden lift. _Is he jealous?_ I roll my eyes at Damien and say "religion."

"How fascinating," Hieronymous says. "Do please include me in the conversation." He takes a step forward.

"I'm afraid there isn't time," Damien says. His voice is breezy, but he lets my arm go in a hurry. "I need to supervise the final preparations. We depart in a few minutes." Damien saunters off with one backwards smirk at me.

Hieronymous walks forward to stand at my side and watch Damien go. "Religion?" he says, one eyebrow raised at me.

"It's hard out there for a demon messiah," I say lightly.

"I can only imagine," Hieronymous says.

"You were right though," I say. "It's war."

We watch in silence for some minutes as the flank of demons march around the corner of the palace - if it can be called that. What it looks like from the outside is a squat, ugly fort made of stone, with crumbling turrets. It looks as though it might collapse in on itself at the slightest tap, and I'm a little horrified that I spent the night inside.

"I used to enjoy being right very much," Hieronymous murmurs.

"So, I guess I should tell you that the demon hordes are probably going to use this trip to the caves as a signal that it's time to go to battle," I say.

"Ah," Hieronymous says. "And now I realize I was wrong."

"Hm?"

"I thought that this excursion could not become any more horrifying."

"Are you still in?" I ask.

"A potentially fatal and assuredly blasphemous excursion that may trigger an inter-species war," Hieronymous says. He takes a deep breath, lets it out. "How could I refuse?"

I look up at him, the corners of my mouth turning up.

"If there's one thing I understand about prophecies, it is that they are inevitable," Hieronymous says. "And that standing in the way of one is a certain recipe for disaster."

"That sounds about right," I say. "Think of Oedipus."

"I would prefer not to," Hieronymous says, and even though it's not exactly funny, I snicker.

"Thanks," I say, screw up my courage, and take his hand. He lets me, and links his fingers into mine.

"Right!" comes a loud voice behind us, and my other arm is seized in a vise-like grip. "Time to go. A huge demon drags me out of Hieronymous's grasp and toward the enormous curtained box.

"But-" I start.

"His majesty is waiting." the demon says, pulling me forward, and I'm forced to surrender to the inevitable.

Damien travels by palanquin, because of course he does.

The palanquin is enormous, the size of a small car, and has been made as comfortable as possible for the passengers. The bottom is padded, and cushions of various sizes, shapes and plushness are strewn across it. While the sides are open, the front and back are closed with panels of polished, dark wood, allowing passengers to prop themselves against them and sit comfortably. Damien, of course, has pride of place, a little chair that's a sort of mobile throne which he rests against the back panel. This leaves the front to me and Hieronymous, and we set ourselves up as best we can - he on the left, stretching his legs in front of him, and me curled in the right corner on a cushion about half my size.

 _Well_ , I think to myself as I settle in. _It_ _'s just three nights since you started sharing a bed with your husband of ten months, and now you get to share a huge mobile one together with Damien Ramsey. Fantastic._

Ten enormous demons are tasked with carrying us, and the palanquin rocks from side to side as they lift us and set us on their shoulders. I slide toward the side with a squeak, and Hieronymous grabs me by the arm. Damien lifts an eyebrow and smirks as we level out and begin the journey.

The pace is ponderous, and travel in a palanquin makes me feel a little ill as the surface undulates with the motion of the ten demons beneath it. I don't dare complain, though, as I'm sure Damien would have no compunction with kicking me out and making me walk along with the rest of the demon guard. A line of them stretches forward and backward, and on both sides, surrounding us. I think at first it's to keep anything from attacking the demon king, but as we continue the journey, I see nothing in the wasteland that looks as though it would attempt an attack - or, indeed, much of anything at all. I begin to wonder if the guard is tasked with keeping Hieronymous and me in, rather than keeping anything else out.

Hours pass. I try to close my eyes and doze a bit, to take the edge off my sleepless night, but I only seem to manage a heavy feeling behind my eyes, and no real sleep. Hieronymous next to me shifts and fidgets; I'm sure that he's desperate for a book. Damien plays a sort of solitaire on a little peg board that he holds in his hand, but doesn't invite me or Hieronymous to play with him. The only sound is the thump of the guards' feet against the desolate ground - it seems the guards are too disciplined to speak in their ranks.

A hand on my shoulder - Hieronymous shaking me slightly. "Eliza," he says. "Look at this."

I turn over and see that he's looking out of the open side nearest him. I have to crab-crawl my way over to get a good look, but what I see makes me grip the soft cushion beneath me in one fist.

An enormous wall has come into view. It stretches along the horizon for as far as I can see in either direction. It's partly obscured by the yellow of dust whipping in the air, but I can see that it's enormously old. There are sections that appear to have been melted, then cooled into torrents of twisted metal, leaving toothless gaps through which the yellow dust blows. The wall encloses a cluster of buildings, most of them dome shaped, which rise above the wall. The domes have craters in them, and every structure seems dusted with dirt and long abandoned. Behind it all stands one enormous tower that almost disappears in the swirling dust. It stretches, one black phalanx, into the sky, rising like a skyscraper over the squat domes.

"What is it?" I ask.

"My birthright," Damien says, without looking up from his game.

"The City of Dis," Hieronymous says, ignoring Damien. "The former home of demonkind."

"What happened to it?"

"War," Hieronymous answers, and my stomach sinks.

"Right," I say, "that thing."

We stare at the forbidding ruin before us.

"I never thought I'd actually see it," Hieronymous muses.

"Enjoy the sight," Damien says, now looking up and smirking at us. "It's my destiny to open that gate and lead my people home before we take the remainder of the land that once was ours."

Hieronymous doesn't tear his eyes from the city, and starts to mutter under his breath. " _E gi_ _à di qua da lei discende l'erta, passando per li cerchi sanza scorta, tal che per lui ne fia la terra aperta_."

Damien and I stare at Hieronymous, who glances back at us, then rolls his eyes. "I'd deplore the state of your educations if I had not had such a hand in them." He turns back to glare at the city, leaving me and Damien to stare at each other, baffled. Damien shrugs.

Once the ruined walls and swirling dust of the City of Dis are out of sight, the palanquin stops so that we can eat. The captain of the guard approaches Damien, and they engage in a tense, whispered conversation that I can't overhear, even if I strain. I give up after a few moments, and instead join Hieronymous, who's sitting on one side of the palanquin. Even when it's set on the ground, his legs dangle without quite touching the soil. We open the packets of food that the guard captain had handed out to us. There's a hunk of some sort of quick bread spread with a brown, sticky mixture that tastes primarily of onion, dried fruit, and a piece of salted meat. There's also a flask of water that we have to share between us, and we share it, sitting in silence and gazing over the desolate landscape.

"So," I say. "I didn't know you could speak Italian."

"I can't," he replies, "not well, anyway. But I can do a passable imitation when the need strikes."

"What was it that you were saying?"

"Virgil to Dante upon approaching the City of Dis for the first time. Canto eight or nine of the Inferno, I think."

I furiously try to put this together in my head. "Are you saying this is - hell?"

Hieronymous snorts. "Hardly. Signor Allegheri's excursion to the Otherworld was rather tainted in its recordation due to his Christian worldview and extreme politics. Still, his description of the City in terms of aesthetics was about right."

"It looked kind of hellish to me," I agree.

"The passage tells of a great being who will descend to Dis and open the Gate so that the poet and his guide will be permitted passage through the City," Hieronymous says. "That gate has been shut, and the city empty, for over five hundred years."

"So you think Damien's the next great being who's going to open the gate?"

"I think that he thinks he is," Hieronymous replies. "I only wanted to take the smirk from his face for a bit."

I kick Hieronymous's leg lightly. "Showoff," I say.

Hieronymous smiles faintly. "Well it worked, didn't it?" He holds his piece of dried meat up to examine it. "What do you suppose this is?" he asks.

I look dubiously at my own piece, which I haven't yet dared to taste. "Do you have a spell that could tell?"

"Not with any great specificity, but I suppose I could try," he replies. He places the meat in his lap, then performs a spell - green magic, I think, by the hand positions - and watches for the results. After a few seconds, his eyes widen.

"What?" I ask.

"Don't eat that," he says, taking both pieces and tossing them as hard as he can out into the waste.

"Why, was it that thing where you won't be satisfied with anything else ever again?" I ask.

"No," he says, with such a grim expression that I decide I'd rather not learn anything else about the food.

We start off again, trundled in our wooden box. Hieronymous stretches out, and it isn't long before he drops off to sleep, propped against one of the larger cushions. I sneak glances at him, not really daring to stare openly. He really does look peaceful and content when asleep, and I wish he looked that way more when he's awake - wish _I_ could make him look peaceful, maybe even happy. But no matter what I try, it seems all I succeed at is making his life that much more difficult.

I wonder if it would have been different if I hadn't stopped us last night - but then dismiss the thought quickly. Saying no was the right thing to do, though just now, it's difficult for me to say exactly why that is. All of my reasons why not seem tangled into an impossible knot in my head, and the only thing I can settle on is that sex wouldn't have alleviated any of the problems we're facing - it'd just add another, confusing layer on top of them.

 _And I'm confused enough as it is_ , I think.

"Is he asleep?" Damien says, and I jump a little. In my reverie, I'd sort of forgotten he was there.

"Yeah," I say. "It's kind of a thing with him. He can sleep pretty much anywhere."

Damien looks impressed. "I wish I could do that," he says.

"Me too," I admit, though I'm a little surprised - I can't picture cool, scheming Damien Ramsey lying awake at night, plagued with anxiety and fear.

"Why'd you marry him in the first place, ice princess?" Damien asks.

"You don't know?" I stare at him, suddenly suspicious.

Damien shrugs. "Ahmed wrote me about it last year," he says, "when I was able to convince him to start writing to me. Seems you were the scandal of the school - he was grateful for it, it took attention away from him."

I remember Ahmed telling me something like that on the first day we met. "That attention was your fault," I say, and wait for even a flicker of guilt to cross Damien's face. I'm not surprised at all when there isn't any.

"He never told me why it happened, though. Not even when he told me that you two'd become friends."

"I never told him why," I say, which is true - Ahmed had never asked me what exactly happened to precipitate my marriage, and I'd been grateful to him that he'd understood me enough not to ask. "And I'm sure as hell not going to tell you, if that's what you're trying for."

Damien smirks, and I wish that I too could whip some choice phrase out in Italian to wipe it off his face.

"It was Potsdam, wasn't it? Behind the whole thing?" he says.

I carefully freeze my facial features, fearing that even a twitch of an eyelid will reveal the truth. "You can tell me," Damien says, his smirk widening.

"What makes you think that?" I deadpan.

Damien arches an eyebrow at me. "I'm critical of that pink harridan but I will give her one thing," he says. "There's no way a student-teacher marriage would happen in _her_ school unless she wanted it to happen."

I have to admit that Damien has a point. Still, I'm not exactly prepared to tell him why Professor Potsdam engineered my marriage, so I say nothing.

"All right," Damien says, "you don't have to tell me about it. But - fair warning. You may be a princess, but that is no bibbidy-bobbidy-boo fairy godmother. You just watch yourself."

"Why would you tell me that?" I ask. "Why do you even care?"

Damien purses his mouth in a way that manages to look ironic. "If that witch ever survives what I did to her," he says, "I'd like to see what you do to her next."

And he smiles.


	36. Chapter 36

When we're set down again, I'm more than ready to leap out of the palanquin and stretch my legs. As soon as I do so, however, a group of demons surrounds me, all pointing their swords in my direction and stopping me in my tracks.

"Relax, stand down," Damien says, hopping from the palanquin and waving them away with one hand. "She's not trying to escape."

The demons relax, sheathing their swords - but I don't relax, and neither does Hieronymous, who'd been climbing out right behind me when it had happened. He grabs my arm and hisses "are you quite sure you haven't thought of any more new and exciting ways to get the pair of us killed today?"

"Soon as I do, you'll be the first to hear them," I whisper back, not taking my eyes off of the demon guards, who are now standing at attention in response to a barked order from the captain.

"On second thought, I think I'd prefer not to know," Hieronymous mutters back.

"You," Damien says, pointing at something behind me.

"Bruno, your majesty!" says the familiar voice. I turn to see Bruno standing at attention emself.

"You're out of formation," Damien barks with a scowl.

"So sorry, your majesty, I was just-" Bruno starts.

"Never mind. Take the guests and follow me."

"Yes, your majesty," Bruno says. E gets between us, takes each of us by the arm in es huge, demon's grip, and marches us behind Damien, who is sauntering toward the captain. When Damien's at the front of the assembly of guards, he turns, facing them, and waits until Bruno has joined him with the two of us.

Now that I'm out of the palanquin's curtained enclosure, I can take full stock of the scenery that surrounds me. We're at the base of a region of mountains that tower in the distance, making me think of my childhood readings of _The Lord of the Rings_. Unlike the aptly named Green Mountains of Vermont, these are craggy, rocky promontories, that give no indication of supporting any kind of life at all.

Our procession, which seems tiny in the shadow of these far-off giants, has stopped just where the ground has started to rise steeply in level - I'm sure the palanquin wouldn't get very far if we had continued on. I don't see any cave entrances, but there's the beginnings of a narrow path leading up, marked with a squat pillar of black stone. The pillar is about shoulder height to me, and the stone doesn't match any of the crumbly, gray rocks that make up the mountains. It's shiny, almost polished, and when I squint a little, it resembles a hunched figure whose face is hidden from view. The overall effect is extremely creepy, and I don't like to look at the stone for very long.

Instead, I look at Damien, who's begun to speak. "As you all know," he says, his voice full and ringing before the ranks, "we apprehended two human spies in my kingdom yesterday."

There's a shifting and muttering among the ranks, and I see not a few suspicious eyes cast up - not toward Hieronymous and myself, but at Damien. Apparently morale among the demon army isn't exactly at an all time high, and looking over the ranks, I begin to understand why. Standing here, Damien looks more like a human than a demon, and talk of human spies coming from him must seem a bit rich to this demonic flank, who could probably obliterate the three of us without a trace, if they felt so inclined

Damien scowls, as though realizing this himself, and considering what to do. He shoots out a hand and grabs me by the wrist, jerking me forward. Bruno lets me go, and I try to struggle free, but Damien has the advantage - he manages to get my wrist behind my back, twisting it until I squeak with pain. There's a scuffling sound behind me, but I can't register what it is. Damien casts a spell that binds both of my hands behind me, then grabs me by the hair, throwing me forward until I lose my footing and smash to the ground on my knees. Damien, one fist still in my hair, yanks my head up to face the ranks.

The demon horde stops muttering, and is now all attention.

"They may seem innocent!" Damien shouts. "They may seem harmless! But it is these very humans who would drive us from our kingdom! _Our_ homeland! _Our_ birthright!" his voice lowers in pitch, but not in volume. "Will we let them?"

" _NO!_ " A roar in unison from the ranks before us, the sound bouncing off the backs of the mountains until this rank of guards sounds like an army.

Damien looks satisfied now. "No," he repeats. "And so they must be taught a lesson. _This_ one," he says, jerking my head higher, "will be thrown into the Caves. The Shapeless will judge her, and decide the proper punishment for trespass and spying."

The cheer that starts is a little tentative, but grows in volume as more demons decide that this is a wonderful idea.

" _That_ one," Damien continues, with a jerk that makes me sure he's pointing behind us to Hieronymous, "will return to the humans and tell them what he's seen. He'll tell them that we are coming - and when we do?" He lifts his voice expectantly, looking over the ranks.

" _No mercy!_ " Damien shouts.

" _NO MERCY!_ " the echoing roar sounds from the ranks.

" _No prisoners!_ "

" _NO PRISONERS!_ " The demons are really enjoying themselves now, unsheathing their swords and clanging them on their shields, the noise echoing until I think I won't be able to stand it.

" _What is our birthright?_ "

" _DEATH!_ " The clanging increases in volume, then abruptly stops as Damien puts his hands up to quiet them.

"Make a camp, and we'll return as soon as the human spy is duly punished," he says. The speech being over, he turns to the guard captain. "Everyone stays except em, and es partner," he says, jerking a thumb at where Bruno is standing.

Damien lets my hair go, and I struggle to my feet. I turn to look for Hieronymous, and find him right behind me, his arms held behind his back by Bruno so he can't cast. He's sporting the beginnings of a nasty looking black eye, and sputtering through a gush of blood from his nose.

"Bruno!" I say in a chiding tone before I can think too much about it.

"Sorry little o - er, Eliza," Bruno says, and e does look a little mollified. "But I can't let him go attacking his majesty, can I?"

I take one glance at the expression on Hieronymous's face, and decide to treat the question as rhetorical.

I'm grabbed again, this time by Bruno's companion, and hustled to the black stone marker. Bruno follows with Hieronymous. The demon horde cheers as Damien leads the way up the path, the four of us close behind.

After we round the first bend, Damien turns around. "All right, let them go."

Bruno and es companion gawk at Damien until he narrows his eyes. "They're not going to run away, I said let them go."

The grip on my arm eases, and I jerk myself away.

"Come on," Damien says, and starts back up the path. Hieronymous is the first to follow, and I rush to walk beside him. I open my mouth to ask if he's okay, but he turns to me with a glare.

"Not one word," he says, and sets about casting a healing spell on his eye and nose.

We walk in silence for a while, Damien in the lead, me struggling to keep up with Hieronymous's long strides, and Bruno and es companion taking the rear.

"Are you all right?" Hieronymous asks me out of the side of his mouth after I stumble over an incline.

"Just a few bruises," I mutter back, "it's okay." Still, the soreness in my knees vanishes a minute later, and I turn back to grin at Hieronymous, who I assume cast a healing spell. "You've still got some blood on your chin." I stop, and reach up to use the sleeve of my sweater to wipe the flakes of dried blood off his face.

"That is extremely unsanitary," Hieronymous mutters, but he holds still while I finish.

"Get moving, you two," Damien snaps from ahead on the trail. "Or get a room."

I whirl on Damien, suddenly furious. "What the hell is your problem anyway?" I shout. "I thought you said you _weren't_ going to sacrifice me!"

"And I told _you_ that I had to tell them all something," Damien says, lowering his voice so that only Hieronymous and I can hear him. "And anyway," he says, a smirk growing on his features, "it all amounts to the same thing, doesn't it? Whether I say you're a sacrifice or not, the minute you go in that cave, whatever's in there is going to do whatever it wants with you. You should just be glad I was able to make a decent excuse for your husband to come back to the palace with me, so he can tell me how to wake Ahmed up."

"Only after we have seen Eliza safely out-" Hieronymous starts, but Damien interrupts.

"Ah-ah-ah," he says, wagging one finger and looking mightily pleased with himself. "That wasn't the deal. The deal was, I take our little princess _to_ the caves - not bring her back again."

Hieronymous grinds us teeth but doesn't say anything, and neither do I - because after all, Damien is right.

Damien starts up the path again with a swagger, and after a moment, Hieronymous and I follow.

"Don't worry," I say to Hieronymous. "I'm coming back out. Musette did, remember?"

This last sentence I say a bit louder, and I'm gratified when Damien turns to me with narrowed eyes. "What?" he says.

"Musette King," I say with a smile. "You remember her, right? She was expelled, but apparently this creature gave her her magic back. She's an incredibly powerful witch now, and she told me to tell you that she's coming to find you, soon as she can travel safely to the Otherworld."

"I'd like to see her try," Damien mutters, but now both the smirk and the swagger have disappeared as he continues up the path.

I turn to Hieronymous with a grin. "Not exactly Dante, but it shut him up pretty good," I say.

"It'll do," he replies, smiling faintly.

There isn't much chance of talking after that. The path increases precipitously in slope, and soon we're all breathing heavily, concentrating on heaving ourselves upward. Damien seems to have the most trouble with this, which I consider karmically appropriate - he seems to have gotten so used to being carried around that it's nice to see him exert himself for once. The demon guards, on the other hand, seem to thrive on the physical exertion, and seem a bit disappointed that they have to check their pace to keep to the rear.

After about an hour's worth of hiking, we come to a sort of plateau in the path, marked with another of those strange, shiny black stones. I walk up to it, examining it closely but not daring to touch it.

"Is that it?" asks Hieronymous, and I look up. He's looking at a fissure in a sheer rock face on the other side of the plateau, so narrow that I don't think any of the demons could enter it unless they went one at a time, and crab-walking.

"I think so," Damien says smoothly. "I haven't actually been here before, but-"

He stops, raising his eyebrows, and I turn. Bruno and es companion have gone to their knees in front of the strange black stone, muttering something that I can't quite make out.

"I think this might be it," I say, then turn back to the fissure in the rock. It seems so black against the gray of the mountain that it seems like a portal to somewhere in deep space - or worse. I'd been so confident that this was the answer to everything just five minutes ago, and now I wish I could think of an excuse to head back down the path and back to the relative safety of the ranks of demons waiting at the base of the mountain.

"Well?" asks Damien with a smirk, "are you ready, ice princess?"

My mouth has gone too dry to answer. I look at Hieronymous instead, but his face is carefully blank. I let out a breath in a huff.

"You don't really think I'd die in there, right?" I ask. Damien shrugs, and Hieronymous doesn't move. The silence is more terrifying than any negative answer I could have received.

I turn to Hieronymous again. "So, uh," I say, "just out of curiosity - if I do die, what happens to you?"

He doesn't answer.

"You lose your magic, right?" I ask. Still no answer, and terror suddenly curdles in my stomach. I'd spent all this time worrying about my own magic that I hadn't even considered what would happen to Hieronymous if I fail. Professor Potsdam had told me that I'm not gambling with just my own life, and I hadn't remembered that until just now. The thought makes me sick.

"Listen," I say, "we can go. We can just - go down the hill, I guess, I mean-" Tears spring to my eyes, and I rush to wipe them. "I wasn't thinking," I say. "I don't want you to-"

"What's the alternative?" Hieronymous says abruptly.

I open my mouth, but I can't think of anything to say.

"What happens if we go back down that hill?" he asks, sounding as impatient as he did when a student was too slow with an answer.

"If the demons don't kill us, they throw us in a dungeon I guess," I say. "We could teleport out, but that means-"

"We go on the run," he finishes. "And there won't be a safe place there or here we could stay for very long." He shakes his head. "Like it or not - and I certainly do not like it - now that we are here, this is the best alternative. It's the only one where we have the chance of becoming a team again."

"Are you - serious?" I ask.

"Go," Hieronymous says. "You'll be all right. I trust you."

I have to cover my mouth with my hand and squeeze my eyes shut for a moment to keep from crying. "I'm so selfish," I squeak. "I'm sorry."

"I told you, I trust you," Hieronymous says. "Here." He casts, then extends one hand, in which he holds a small, portable light spell. I reach out and take it, letting the ball of light settle in my palm.

"Maybe," I say slowly, "when I get back? We can - I don't know, talk."

"All right, Hieronymous says, cutting his eyes downward. I can't think of anything else to say, so I turn to the rock face instead.

All I can do is put one foot in front of the other, carrying myself towards the fissure until it looms in my vision, the utter absence of light. I pause just before I set one foot inside, considering whether I should just turn and run, when I hear Hieronymous behind me say "Eliza."

I turn and see him standing by himself beside that strange black stone marker. He doesn't say anything. Instead, he presses his lips tightly together, then turns his hands, palms out, toward me.

I smile, and because I don't trust myself to speak, mouth "thank you." I squeeze the small light spell in my hand, then, taking one deep breath, step into the fissure.

The black surrounds me like a cloak as I step into the rock. The space around me seems cavernous after I squeeze myself through the fissure, and the light spell doesn't illuminate any walls or rocks around me - just empty space. I walk forward - at least, the direction I think is forward. When I turn around to try to orient myself, I can't see even a sliver of outside light from where the fissure in the rock should be.

I turn again, moving toward what I think is the interior of the mountain, half convinced that I'm walking straight into nothing. There's nothing in this cave that'll turn my life around at all - nothing that will help me. I might as well turn around right now, run back to Hieronymous, tell him he was right all along, that I never-

"Hello, little girl."

The voice seems to come from right in front of me, right behind me, and all around the cave. I look wildly around, but I can't see anything - and I realize that it's because my light spell has gone out.

"Um - h - hi," I say. My nails are digging into my palms.

"Are you lost?"

"Um… kind of?" I say. "I mean, I know where I am, technically, but I guess I don't really know where I want to be?"

"Are you lonely?" the voice says, a sort of low thrum in it, as though it's coming from the floor.

"Uh - maybe," I say, "a little bit, but-"

"I'm lonely - and for such a long time," the voice says.

"Uh-" I start, and then my voice goes as I'm lifted into the air. I'm cradled somewhere between the floor and ceiling. It's half comfortable and half not, as though I'm in a hammock with no back support.

"You're a strange little thing," the voice says. "I usually have to roam far afield to find companions, but you came here looking for me. Why?" A sigh in its voice as it asks, as though the very question makes the speaker sad.

I struggle to come up with a satisfactory answer. Gift givers in fairy tales usually don't take well to admissions of greed - but isn't that just why I'm here, to get something that I want for myself? They don't take well to lies either, so in the end, I decide to go with the honest answer.

"My friend told me about you," I say. "She told me you helped her when she needed it - you gave her magic back when it was taken away. Well - I need help too. My magic's been taken away - you can tell, can't you?"

A rustling, rippling sensation, as though soft tendrils were running under my skin. It's difficult not to squirm away from the sensation, but there's nowhere to squirm _to_.

"Ye-es," the voice says, "but is that what you really want?

"I-" I say. "Yes, I - what?"

"I think you want a lot of things, the voice says, half purring. "You want-" it says, deepening in tone, "you want to _distinguish_ yourself, don't you?"

"I-I don't-" I say.

"How you'd hate to be ordinary," the voice says, and now I recognize it - it's Hieronymous's voice. Or is it Aloysius's? I can't tell, and the fact that I can't tell is somehow all the more terrifying. "After all," the voice says, "if you were ordinary, why should I want you?"

"Wh-" I start, my voice failing me.

"Would you like to play a game with me?" the voice says. It doesn't sound like Hieronymous's voice any more - the voice is back to its former ethereal quality, and I note a distinct tone of hope in its voice.

"Uh - ah - okay," I say, a little disconcerted, but relieved to be back on familiar territory. "Sure, but what - uh - what game?"

"Oh!" The voice sounds excited at the prospect of answering the question. I feel myself set down onto my feet again, and then a soft but inexorable pressure on my back. "Come here," the voice says, and I stumble forward. There's a sudden blaze of light in front of me, and I squint, covering my face with one hand. "It's all right," the voice says. "I'm allowed to play with anything in this room. See?"

I look, squinting against the light, and I see. There's a pile - no, _piles_ , several piles of games in front of me in their happily colored cardboard boxes. I see Sorry, Parcheesi, several decks of cards, There's chess, a set of flowerstones, a board covered with tiny black and white chips set out in a random pattern. The room stretches in front of me, so long that I can't see the far wall, every inch of it crammed with boxes and strange devices.

"I have every game ever invented," says the voice. "See?"

"Yeah," I say. There are more games than I can count, most of them unfamiliar, but amid the piles my eyes light on a Snoopy vs. the Red Baron game that I remember playing with at my grandparents' house, a set of Magic: The Gathering cards, and a box that reads "Pretty Pretty Princess."

"I can play with anything I want," says the voice, "as long as it's in this room."

I pause in the entrance. Something about the way the creature says this is making the hairs on my arms stand up - but I'm not sure quite why.

"Go on," the voice says. "You can pick a game. Go in."

"I don't - I don't know," I say. "What happens if we play?"

"If you win," the voice says, "I'll give you what you want. What you _really_ want."

"And what happens if you win?" I ask.

"Since you came to me…" the voice says, trailing a bit as though gleefully anticipating what it's going to say next, "then I get to keep you. For as long as you last."

"As long as I-" I start, and then I see it. On top of the nearest pile of cardboard boxes is a classic Monopoly game, Uncle Pennybags' mustachioed face grinning up at me.

 _Emmy_ , I think, _Emmy won. And so can I._

I just have to pick the right game, is all. Not Monopoly, which always bored me to tears, not checkers or chess, either. No flowerstones for sure - Virginia tried to teach me the basics last year, but I'd gotten so lost she'd given up on me in frustration. I cast around again, trying to think of games I liked to play as a child, ones I know the rules to, inside and out. _A card game? Poker like I used to play with Dad? He always let me win - Candyland? Too chancy - not enough skill in that._

And then I see it, under a Pictionary box - Clue, my absolute favorite when I'd been about ten. I'd gotten so good at it, none of the other kids in the neighborhood had wanted to play with me any more, so instead I'd played by myself, using the cards and tiny murder weapons to set up elaborate narratives in which every one of the manor guests killed each other in increasingly gruesome ways. All of this sounds a bit creepy now, but I'd had a system, down pat, of getting from room to room in the least amount of moves. If I'm going to win at any game in this weirdly vast space, Clue is the one I'll have to play.

"Okay," I say, stepping into the light, confidence filling my voice, "I want to play-"

Something thunks into the base of my skull and I begin to fall forward.

"I think I'll play with _you_ ," the voice says.

I hit the ground, face first.


	37. Chapter 37

_Hey, I'm home!_

I have to wait a breath or two for the nausea to pass before I can open my eyes. Hieronymous told me the reaction would wear off once I'd started traveling through the Spiral Gate on a regular basis, and it's proved largely true. Still, I'm extra careful whenever I come home - I'd prefer not to throw up all over the foyer if I can help it. I'd done it once in February, coming home exhausted and distracted from a particularly intense study session, and it isn't an experience I'd care to repeat.

The light streaming through the smoked glass walls and clear ceiling is a cheerful, ruddy orange, a nice contrast from the dour, gray Oxbridge evening I've just stepped out of. I tug off my square cap, and shake out my hair.

 _How did it go?_ Hieronymous's voice in my head.

 _I think I died somewhere around hour four_ , I think back at him, _but not to worry - I came back to life as a zombie and finished_.

 _I should hope so_ , comes the reply. _A proper education is too important to waste on the dead. Undead is, I think, a sufficient compromise. Hungry?_

 _Starving_ , I think, removing my heavy black gown. I toss it and the cap to one side, teleporting them in mid-air to my bedroom closet.

_Care for anything in particular?_

_Human brains and the rotting flesh of innocent children, please._ I'm wearing a white blouse, black skirt and tights, which, after sitting in them for eight hours straight, feel close and a bit sticky. I do a quick change, teleporting my outfit back to my room, while fetching a comfortable pair of jeans and t-shirt to wear in their place. The change is almost instantaneous, so that there's no need to try covering up, even if there had been anyone trying to peer through the windows at me. I stretch, hearing my back pop a little, then start down the steps into the foyer.

_Very droll. I hope you mean it, I've been out slaughtering children just for you all afternoon. Do you know, it's terribly hard to find innocent ones these days?_

I project an image of me sticking my tongue out, and head to the door by the fireplace, reaching out in my mind to determine where Hieronymous is in the house. I quickly find him in his study, which isn't surprising - despite his crack about the innocent children, he's probably been working in there all day. I know that I have to focus on the study while opening this particular door, as it will open on any room in the house, so long as one is concentrating on it. I've made the mistake of trying to go to the library while thinking about getting a snack from the kitchen, and ended up in two rooms at once. It was very uncomfortable, and took a while to sort out and put myself together again.

I'm concentrating as I reach my hand to the knob, but something makes me stop. At first, I'm not quite sure what it is - just a flash on the edges of my vision. I turn, trying to figure out what I'd seen. It's a minute before I recognize it - a splash of deepening orange light playing on the gray steps leading to the fireplace. But for a moment, it almost looked like a fan of bright dyed orange hair.

_how had I never noticed that she had blue eyes?_

I blink, shaking myself a little. What am I thinking - blue eyes? And why was the thought so spooky?

_There_ _'s nothing spooky, it's just Hieronymous's fireplace. Sheesh._

_Our_ fireplace, I correct myself in my head. Funny how I've lived in Revane Cottage for nearly six months, and the concept is still a little difficult to grasp. Hieronymous had insisted on it when I'd moved in around Christmas - that I ought to consider the house, and everything in it, as ours, not his.

"Even if we're not married any more?" I'd asked, grinning.

"Are you trying to hint that you'd like to be remarried?" he'd said. "I could call Petunia, I'm sure she'd be only too happy to officiate-"

" _No!_ " I'd shouted, pushing him onto the sofa, then sitting on his lap before he could get up. "One marriage is enough. For now, anyway."

It had been a very nice Christmas - a very nice six months, really, even with the specter of my first set of preliminary exams hanging over my head - though thinking of this huge house as partly mine still doesn't come very easily.

I turn to the door and twist the knob, concentrating on the study as I do. But at the last second, I become convinced that when I open it, the door will lead to an endless hallway, studded with identical rows of doors.

 _Oh sh-_ I think, convinced I'm going to get stuck between somewhere - but to my relief, the door opens into Hieronymous's study, and I step through, solid and whole.

He's at his desk putting a set of pages in order, and gets up to greet me, making his way across the room in four long strides. He smiles, reaches out, cups my chin in one hand. "Hello," he says, then leans down to kiss me.

The kiss is open mouthed, both casual and intimate, arresting in its warmth. And when he pulls away, I forget how to breathe. I just stare at him wide-eyed until he frowns at me. "Are you all right?"

I blink, shaking myself a little. "Oh - yeah, sorry. I guess my brain kind of short circuited there."

"You must have overheated it," Hieronymous says, tapping me on the forehead with one long finger and smiling again. "What did you write on?"

"Nicholas Hawksmoor," I say, throwing myself onto the sofa. "And his theory of magic in an enclosed space - how to create rooms to enhance a spell's efficacy."

"Efficacy or effectiveness?" Hieronymous asks, one eyebrow raised.

"Ideally both, but aside from a few controlled experiments, no one's ever put the theory into practice," I reply, draping my arm over my eyes. "Apparently the aesthetics of the best magic-enhancing rooms are somewhat lacking. Lots of jagged angles, every corner has to be acute, that kind of thing."

"That does sound unpleasant," Hieronymous says.

"About as unpleasant as being quizzed on my word usage right after I finish my last exam of the year," I say.

"And when, in all the years you've known me, have you ever expected me to go easy on you?"

"Mm," I say, settling into the sofa cushions a little. Now that I'm home, with all of my prelims finally behind me, my exhaustion is almost pleasant. My thoughts keep straying to the way Hieronymous had kissed me, and the effect is strange. I'm halfway convinced that he's never kissed me that way before, and half certain that he's kissed me that way every day I've seen him since I'd moved to the UK to read magical history at Oxford. My brain almost feels as though it's been split, the way I'd felt when I'd gone through the door to the library and the kitchen at the same time.

 _You_ _'re just tired_ , I tell myself. _Eight hours of preliminary exam a day for five days will do that to you._ "I'm glad it's over," I mutter out loud. Hieronymous doesn't answer, but picks my feet up to sit next to me on the sofa, letting them rest on his lap and cupping one ankle.

"You changed clothes," is what he says after a moment of sitting comfortably together.

"I couldn't stand them for another minute," I say. "Anyway, I hate those robes. They make me look like a garbage bag."

"I think they look rather dignified," Hieronymous replies.

"I had Lila take my picture and send it to Ellen on Monday," I say.

"Oh? What did she say?"

I snicker. "She laughed her head off. She said she took her finals in jeans and a sweatshirt."

"She might just be jealous," Hieronymous says, poking me in the calf.

"Maybe," I say. "She's a little scandalized that I only have to take exams every two years though. I don't know, I think I'd rather have exams half as intense every year."

"M.I.M. is not exactly known for its lax academics," Hieronymous says a bit waspishly. I take my arm from my eyes and grin at him.

"I'm not saying your _alma mater_ is any slouch," I say. "Ellen complains all the time. But she loves it too, you know? Oxford's just kind of…" I wave my hands in the air, reaching for the word, "traditional. Dignified. The academic dress is a little much, though. Lila calls it 'academic drag.'"

Hieronymous smirks. "I can only imagine what Ms. Danson thinks."

"Oh, I had Lila send her the picture too. Virginia says Ellen'n'me are both crazy. She's having a marvelous time in California, camping out among the redwoods and monitoring endangered blue-throated whippoorwills or whatever they've got out there."

"I take it her apprenticeship is going well, then?"

"Oh yeah," I say. "No exams, no homework, no essays, just a lot of outdoor activity. Perfection."

"Is that right?" Hieronymous asks. "And what would you say about your own academic choice, then?"

"After forty-odd hours of preliminary exams?" I ask, eyebrows raised. Then I sit up a little, take his left hand in mine, I bring his thumb to my mouth and lick it, starting from the knuckle, taking the tip in my mouth and sucking lightly. "Perfection," I say around it.

Hieronymous doesn't react, save to lift his eyebrows a bit. "Well, we should celebrate," he says. "I decanted a Nebbiolo, if you're interested."

"Mmm," I say, "yeah."

"You have no idea what that is, do you?" he asks, giving me a side-eye.

"Nope!" I say cheerfully, "but it sounds like wine, and if so, I am _into_ it."

Hieronymous smirks, but casts, and a decanter and two glasses appear on the coffee table by the sofa. He leans forward, still holding my calves in one hand, and pours a small measure of wine into each bell-shaped glass, then hands one to me. I examine it, holding the glass to the light, then swirling it a little.

"It's orange-y," I say. "That's interesting."

"A characteristic of many older reds, Nebbiolo in particular," Hieronymous replies. "Try it."

I scoot up a little on the sofa to bring the glass to my nose, and inhale. Then I take a sip, and roll the liquid over my tongue. "M _mm_ mm, that's really nice," I say, then take a larger sip. "What year is this?"

"Nineteen seventy-five."

"One of the cases your father left you?"

"Mm," Hieronymous replies, sipping at his glass. I decide not to press him - Hieronymous only talks about his late father when he's in one of his more effusive moods. Today is apparently not one of those days. "I think this ought to breathe for another few minutes, it's still a bit tight."

It tasted just fine to me, but I go along, placing my glass back on the coffee table and settling back into the sofa.

"What are you going to do with your first day of Long Vacation?" he asks.

"Some kind of vacation," I say. "I'll be spending the entire summer in that museum's dank basement."

"Your internship is rather prestigious; I seem to recall you saying that if you didn't receive it, you would throw yourself into the Thames."

"Doesn't mean I can't complain about it now that I've got it," I say with a smirk. "Tomorrow though…. Sleep in, I guess. Oh - Lila asked me to have lunch with her. She had another fight with Gillian; I think she wants to take me through the gory details."

Hieronymous grimaces. "Can you get out of it?"

"I don't want to get out of it," I say. I'm actually quite grateful to Lila and Gillian, rancorous though their relationship can sometimes get. Lila had been my roommate in my first year at Oxford, but although we'd agreed to room together for the second year too, our plan changed abruptly when Gillian had presented Lila with the keys to her apartment as an early Christmas present at the end of Michaelmas term. Lila had been in raptures, but I hadn't, as she'd left me with two alternatives - find another roommate at the last minute, or give up the room entirely to a set of students on the waiting list.

I'd told Hieronymous about my predicament while staying at Revane the next weekend, while trying to teach him to cook pasta puttanesca - Hieronymous is utterly worthless at making anything edible except French press coffee and toast, the latter of which he burns half the time. I'd been chopping garlic, complaining about how the rest of my friends, comfortable in their own living arrangements, were making concerned faces at me but not lifting a finger to help find someone to room with or another place to live, when Hieronymous had said quietly, "stay here, then."

I'd whirled around, my knife still in hand, and nearly stabbed him with it. "You're serious?" was all I could think of to say.

Hieronymous had only shrugged. "Why shouldn't I be serious?"

I'd only gawked, clutching the knife as though someone might try to wrest it from my hand at any moment.

"I'm serious," Hieronymous had repeated. "Please stay here. I like the house better with you in it."

I'd dropped the knife, and we'd forgotten about the pasta until the pot had boiled over.

Six months later, I haven't gotten tired of living at Revane with Hieronymous - even if he never did learn how to cook - so I figure it's the least I can do to let Lila blow off some steam with me at lunch.

"I haven't seen you all week," Hieronymous grouses.

"You can meet me after, we could do something fun. Take me to the Tate Modern or something."

Hieronymous snorts and mutters something about modern art under his breath. He affects not to like it, but I've discovered that this is largely a front.

"Please?" I say, grinning. "They brought back the Joseph Beuys retrospective - I want to see it before it goes to Paris next month. Oh - you don't have to work, do you?"

Hieronymous smiles at the question. "Actually, I finished the draft this afternoon."

"What?" I say, sitting up, all thoughts of Joseph Beuys banished. "You didn't tell me!"

"I was going to," he replies. His eyes are cast modestly down, but his smile is pleased.

"That's amazing!" I say, throwing my arms around his neck. He hadn't said anything, probably because I was stressed enough over my prelims, but I could tell from his pacing this week that he'd been worried he wouldn't meet his editor's deadline, which is next Tuesday.

"It's still quite rough," Hieronymous replies, winding one arm around my waist. "Are you going to proof it?"

"Yeah, tomorrow," I say.

"Start Sunday; you deserve a day off."

"I wanna read it though," I say, brushing one strand of hair back from his forehead.

Hieronymous snorts. "Two pages in, and you'll say that you're bored out of your skull."

"That's what you need me for - standard Hieronymous-to-English translation to keep your readers from falling asleep," I say, then give his shoulder a squeeze. "Seriously - that's incredible. Congratulations."

"Don't congratulate me until it's actually finished," he replies, pretending to be annoyed. "And anyway, it mightn't sell. There isn't exactly a market for a treatise on black magic esoterica, particularly from someone who's strayed as far from academia as I have."

"You got a publisher, didn't you?" I ask. "I'm just glad you picked it back up after so long." Hieronymous had been working on a proposed manuscript on black magic the year we'd been married, and had had to drop it when he'd rushed back to England, just before the death of his father. It had taken him four years to pick it back up, and another year to finish the draft that had expanded into a full textbook. "I bet by next year it's required reading at M.I.M. at least."

"Hm," Hieronymous replies. "Your confidence is inspiring, as ever." He only sounds slightly sarcastic.

"Think this is ready?" I ask, pointing to the wine glasses on the table.

"I suppose so."

"Well then, cheers," I say, leaning forward to take both glasses and giving his to him.

"To the foreseeable future," he proposes with a half smile, and we both sip from our glasses. I have to admit that he was right about the wine - just the few minutes wait has made the flavor fuller, more complex. There are times when I despair of learning all there is to know about wine - it's the sort of intricate, constantly shifting subject on which Hieronymous seems to thrive, but I find all the information one needs to keep in one's head - vintages, vineyards, _terroir_ \- confounding. Hieronymous is constantly telling me to be patient with myself, that I have plenty of time to learn, but patience can be difficult to come by.

We sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes while I try to catalog the impressions I'm getting from the wine. But before I've finished, Hieronymous interrupts.

"D'you ever think that we ought to get married again?"

I start at the question. In the four years since our divorce and the almost two years since we started seeing each other in the UK, he hasn't ever mentioned marriage to me except as a joke. Faced with a serious question, I find myself unsure of how to answer. He waits for me, expression carefully blank.

"Uh - well yeah, actually, yes," I stammer. "But I dunno, I mean-" I stop, sucking in my breath and holding it for a few seconds, hesitating before I decide to just come out with the truth. "If I get married - again - I kind of want my parents to be there this time. And I haven't figured out how to tell them about you yet."

"Ah," he replies, still not giving me any indication of how he feels about this disclosure. "Family does complicate things."

"It's worth it though. I mean even if they are a little hazy about me when I'm not around, I still want them to be as much a part of my life as they can be. I just don't know how they're going to react when I introduce them to the British viscount who's nearly twice my age."

"Even though you're no longer a minor?"

I shrug. "It's different with parents. Dad especially. To him, I'm still his little girl, you know?"

"Not really," Hieronymous replies.

I don't know how to respond to this, so I sip at my wine for lack of anything else to do.

Hieronymous lets out a breath. "I did not mean that to sound self-pitying, Eliza, I mean that I honestly don't know. I've been on my own since I was eighteen. I never knew my mother, and I hadn't spoken to my father until just before his death. And even then..." He lets himself trail off with a slight grimace. "I suppose what I mean to say is that although my circumstances have been less than ideal, I understand what you're telling me. If you want time, you have it."

"Thank you," I say.

"It's interesting," he says, swirling his wine slowly around his glass, examining the color in the orange light shining through the windows. "Family, I mean. The idea that chance - the accident of birth - throws a group of people together, and they're supposed to love each other unconditionally for their entire lives. I've never quite understood it."

"I don't think anybody really understands it," I admit, treading as carefully as I can with my words. "I mean, I don't really. I love my parents a lot, sure, but that didn't stop me from leaving them. For magic, for England, for-" I stop myself before the next word I'd been meaning to say comes out - _for you_.

"Even so, you're meant to leave, are you not?" Hieronymous asks, tilting his head a bit. "It's all part of the natural progression. Grow up, leave home, venture out, start a new family. But keeping your parents in it. Every happy family, alike."

"And every unhappy family, unhappy in its own way," I finish, and Hieronymous gives me a smirk. "But it sounds like it's only fair, right? You get one family by chance, and one by choice. And about an equal chance of being happy with either of them."

"That does sound reasonable," Hieronymous agrees. "A second chance for everyone, if they choose to take it." He takes another sip of wine, closing his eyes as he does, swallowing slowly. "I suppose I'm saying that I'd like to. Take it, that is."

"What-" I start, not quite understanding, but wanting to.

"Married or not married - I don't particularly care one way or the other," he says, then turns to look me in the eye. "Be my family."

I stare at him, mouth parted, eyes wide. "I already am," is what comes out of my mouth, and this time it's Hieronymous who takes both wine glasses and sets them on the table before taking my face in his hands.

But when his mouth closes on mine, I jump back as though I've been shocked.

"Eliza-" Hieronymous says, but I barely hear him. My brain seems to have been split violently in two. Part of me felt Hieronymous kiss me, and part of me felt his fingers on my mouth, pushing me away.

"What was that?" I ask in a half whisper.

"What-" Hieronymous starts, but I hold my hand up, stopping him.

"What happened to twenty-six?" I say.

Hieronymous stares at me, uncomprehending.

"You said go away," I insist. "Until I'm twenty-six. What happened to twenty-six?"

"I don't-" Hieronymous says, but I'm already looking wildly around the room. Part of me recognizes it as my home, and part of me doesn't recognize it at all. Or rather, it does - but the recognition horrifies me so much that my brain shies away from it.

"Why are we here?" I ask. "How can you stand to be here?"

"Eliza, this is our home-"

"It's a slaughterhouse!" I shout, my voice suddenly and shatteringly loud. "Mrs. Craft died here! And Beardy McHaggis and all the guests - and your father - and - and Violet!" My voice breaks on the last name, panic clawing its way up my throat.

Hieronymous blinks. "Who?"

I scramble backwards on the sofa, kicking Hieronymous in the leg as I struggle out of his arms. He lets me go, backing away himself, concern knitting his brows.

"It's too easy," I whisper, my arms prickling with gooseflesh, with a terror I can't fully comprehend.

"Are...you making some sort of comment on my virtue?" Hieronymous says, trying to make it into a joke, trying to hide the hurt in his expression, not succeeding.

I stare at him. "You never forgot Violet," I say. "Not even when your father memory spelled you. You _never_ forgot Violet."

Hieronymous places one hand over his mouth, breathes out. "All right," he says. "I think you've been under a great deal of strain this past week - I apologize if I've added to it. I think that we should both calm down, go to bed, and in the morning-"

"And Emmy never forgot Damien," I say, no longer listening, instead trying to work out this strange knot that seems to have surfaced in my head.

A sound, muttering, and I look up to see Hieronymous casting a calming spell in my direction, and I slash with my hands, blocking him. " _No!_ " I shout. "Emmy never forgot Damien! And you _never_ forgot Violet!"

Thoughts crowding through my head, jostling each other from both halves of my divided brain.

_He said he can_ _'t be with you because you're only seventeen_

_(no you_ _'re twenty-one, you're in college what)_

_his father was killed here you watched him die_

_(I never met his father he died before I came here)_

_he wouldn_ _'t even write to you wouldn't even say_

_(he asked me to be his family!)_

A moan escapes my mouth as I press my palms against both sides of my head, trying to hold it together, trying to keep it from splitting physically in two.

"Eliza, _please_ -" Hieronymous says, reaching his hands out toward my shoulders.

" _Don_ _'t touch me!_ " I scream, sitting up on the arm of the sofa. "I never forgot _you_! I never forgot you, and this - isn't you! You're not real!"

Hieronymous freezes, but the pain in his face is a wound in my own chest, so I close my eyes, clenching my hands in front of them to block out even the light from the room. "You're not real," I moan, "you're not real, you're not _real_ , _you_ _'re not real_ -"

A soft pop, and suddenly I'm being cradled in something soft and infinitely yielding. I slowly take the heels of my hands off of my eyes and open them, but all I'm taking in is black.

"Well," a soft, thrumming voice says around me. "You win."

It takes me a few seconds to realize what's just happened, and when I do, I let out a low, guttural howl that ends in a sob. I can still remember everything that had happened in the five year illusion that had been placed in my head - and losing it brings an almost physical pain.

"What's wrong?" the voice says. "Do you want it back?"

I have to physically bite my tongue to keep myself from saying yes. I roll in the creature's grip, writhing, but no matter how I move, I can't seem to dislodge myself. _It_ _'s just as well_ , I think, as I slowly begin to calm, _I have no idea how far I am from the ground_.

"I can give it back to you, if that's what you want," the voice says. "Now that you've won, I can give you anything you want."

I can't speak. I focus on breathing - filling my lungs with air, letting it out again, filling, out.

"Just say so," the voice says, caressing. "Say what you want and I'll give it to you."

In. Out. In. Out. In. "No."

A strange contraction around me, as though the creature's grip has tightened. "But it's what you want, isn't it?"

In. Out. In. "No," I say, "it's too easy."

"I don't understand," the creature says. "I did what you wanted. I fixed him for you."

"I don't want him to be fixed," I say, my voice hoarse.

"No-o?" A sibilant suspicion in the voice.

" _No_ ," I say. "I love him." The moment the words come out of my mouth, I realize that they're true. I love him. I don't know how I know I know it, but I know.

A pause. _Take into the air my quiet breath._

"And that means I love him for who he is," I say. "I don't need him to be fixed, or changed or anything - I don't even care if he loves me back. I just-" _breathe in_ "I want to have the chance. To be with him for real."

"What do you want, then?" the voice says, and its lower registers rumble through my spine.

"What I asked you for," I say. "My chance. My magic. Give it back to me. Everything else - I'll do myself."

"Well," the voice says, "all right."

I close my eyes, marveling at how little my view changes as I do. "It's funny," I say, half giddy with my own triumph. "you'd think you would have tried a little harder not to lose."

A low rumble that I recognize as a chuckle, moving through me as the creature moves.

"Just because you've won," it says, "what makes you think that I've lost?"

When the creature stabs me through the chest, just below my sternum, I have just enough time to register the shriek of pain that erupts in my throat before all is darkness and silence.


	38. Chapter 38

"Eliza?"

A voice in the black, hauntingly and maddeningly familiar. I can't tell which direction it's coming from, but I try to struggle towards it anyway, despite the fact that I can't seem to move my limbs.

"What do you think that thing did to her?" Another voice, not quite so enticing but almost as familiar.

The first sensation comes then, a sharp pain just below my ribs. That too is familiar, and I feel myself begin to panic. I struggle and heave in one huge breath, the pain increasing as I do.

"She's breathing - I need to check her pulse."

"Put her down - no, just on the ground. Put her down _now_."

Other sounds coming through, a grunting and a strange and off-putting smell, and then the feel of something solid at my back.

"E _li_ za." Something warm around my wrist, then pressure, a hard jab in the hollow under my thumb. I hear a low moan.

"I think you're hurting her," the second voice says.

"Shut _up_ ," the first voice says, but the jabbing stops. "Eliza." Pressure in the hollow of my neck, then a patting sensation on either cheek.

"Well she isn't dead." The second voice sounds as though it's hovering above me in the sky somewhere.

"I said _shut up_." Something soft brushing my face, then gone again.

"You might want to put a 'your majesty' on that."

A slit of blindingly bright light pierces my vision, and the moan sounds again. I cringe, hearing it, until I realize I'm the one making it.

"She waking up?" the second voice says, suddenly closer. The light dims, and I'm able to open my eyes a fraction more.

"Eliza, are you all right?"

I blink a few times, trying to register what I'm seeing. Two faces bent over mine, one white and one blue - Hieronymous and Damien crouched on the ground, one on either side of me. "Hi," I say. It comes out in a croak.

Hieronymous closes his eyes, covers his mouth with one hand and leans away from me, propping himself up on the ground with his other hand as though he's about to be sick. The light is once again blinding, and I wince - then open my eyes wider, blinking and awestruck at what I see.

"Oh-" Damien says, backing away. "Oh shit. Uh - Grabby - Professor Grabiner - I think you wanta see this."

"See what?" Hieronyous says, leaning back and brushing one hand over his hair.

"I see it," I say.

"See what, Eliza?" asks Hieronymous.

" _All_ of it!" I say, opening my eyes wide to take it in. In the sky above me is a ribbon of light - a shimmering, shifting aurora that undulates like the back of some enormous snake. It's all colors and none, white, green, red and blue, shot with flashes of velvety black. 'It's beautiful," I breathe.

Hieronymous cranes his neck up to look at the sky. "I don't-"

"No," Damien says, "no, look at _her_."

"Don't you see it?" I ask. "Look - look-"

I reach my hand toward the ribbon in the sky, concentrating on it until one band of color starts to bend, peeling away from the main band in a line of rich red light. It speeds downward, then coils itself loosely around my hand, wrist and forearm, pulsing and warm. I'm delighted, as though an exotic bird has just landed in my outstretched hand, and I already know what to do with it. I twist my wrist around, wrapping the beam into a loop, then hooking my fingers, pulling it through. The pattern is familiar - I learned it on my first day of school. And when the knot is exactly right, I open my hand, releasing it into the air, and a light breeze blows across my palm.

The breeze, however, doesn't die down. It gradually increases in strength to a wind, then to a gust. When I turn my palm into it, the wind is so strong that it knocks my arm to the ground.

"Shit!" Damien says, staggering as the gust becomes a gale. "What the hell is that?"

I snap my palm shut, breaking the red ribbon in two. Both it and the wind vanish as quickly as they had appeared.

Damien is looking frantically around him, trying to put his hair back into place. "What _was_ that?" he repeats. "Was it that thing, whatever's in there? Is it angry or-"

I turn my head slightly and see Hieronymous flick his eyes from Damien to my hand, then to my face. His expression is unreadable. He bends over me, takes my hand, and lays it carefully over my stomach.

 _He knows it was me_ , I realize, so I wait for him to decide what to do about it.

The first thing he does is speak to me in a low, calm voice. "How do you feel?"

"Okay," I say, which is true. I don't seem to be feeling much of anything just now. The sharp pain that had pierced my chest is now a throb so low, it can't accurately be called pain anymore. Tentatively I move my hand up, feeling for the wound the creature made, and feel nothing. The flesh beneath my sweater is solid and unmarked, and even my sweater is untouched.

"Can you tell me what happened?" Hieronymous asks.

"I had a dream, and you were in it," I say. The strange five-year illusion that the creature of the cave had placed into my head is now mercifully fading, but I can still remember bits of it, and those bits are piercing. They flutter around my head like uncertain birds, now and then giving me a flash of illusion disguised as memory. The night I flew to London, all the belongings I was taking to University in two suitcases, him picking me up at the airport, both of us so nervous we could barely hold a conversation. The way we'd laughed about it the morning after, relief encircling me like his arms around my waist. Him driving me to Oxbridge just before school began, promising me that I could visit every weekend, if I wanted, trying to hide how much he'd miss me. Running out of his house in London late one winter night to walk through a sudden snowstorm, me forgetting my gloves, sharing a paper cup of hot tea he'd bought me to keep my hands warm. His mouth tasting of tannic acid and the sharp breath of snow.

 _Not real_ , I remind myself, _not real, not real_.

"Was it that bad?" he asks, his mouth turning up the slightest bit, trying to insert the tiniest amount of levity into the question. I'm grateful for it, and I smile back.

"No," I say, "not that bad."

"And then what happened?" he asks.

"I… won," I say, though the very word sounds bleak in my ears.

"I see you did," Hieronymous says. "But-"

He doesn't get to finish his thought before Damien, whose curiosity has apparently overcome his initial shock, steps back into view, peering at me with narrowed eyes.

"Well," he says, "I thought you were pretty freaky before, ice princess, but this is taking things up a level."

I squint at Damien; beneath the bright ribbon of color in the sky he's a black monolith, his facial features hidden in shadow. "What-" I start.

"Your eyes, Eliza," Hieronymous says. "Look."

He casts, quickly, and I marvel at how I can feel it now - the tremble in the air, the rush of magic coalescing between his palms. He turns his hands towards me, and they contain a pool of something reflective, which he angles so that I can see my face in them.

"Ah-" I start, then stop, unsure of what to say. My eyes have changed from the brackish brown I used to be vain enough to call "hazel" to an inky, monochromatic black. My irises are gone - only the pupil remains. The effect makes my eyes look strangely hollow, empty of some essential humanity.

"I guess I shouldn't be too surprised," I say, when my voice comes back. "It's the same as Emmy."

"Who?" Damien's voice is sharp.

"Musette King," Hieronymous replies. "At least now we know that it was not my memory spell that affected her eyes." He doesn't seem relieved by this discovery - on the contrary, he's peering into my face with a look of deepening concern.

"Musette too?" Damien says. "Gross."

"I'd watch my mouth if I were you, Mr. Ramsey," Hieronymous says, though he doesn't sound annoyed - only cautious. He turns back to me. "That breeze spell you just cast-"

"That was _her_?" Damien says, with a note of alarm in his voice. Hieronymous ignores him.

"Where did you learn to do that?" Hieronymous asks me.

"You taught me," I say, a little confused. "Red magic, first day of school." I remember that class - being petrified when I'd seen him sweep to the front of the room, snapping his cape around him with a practiced crack of the wrist, his menacing speech threatening the dire consequences of the misuse of red magic. Me feeling sure that I'd never master the elementary spell in my book on the desk - the hand positions seeming so alien, so impossible to achieve, the incantation sticking to my tongue. I'd thought he'd haul me in front of the class, castigate me for my failure, tell everyone that he'd been right about me this whole time - that I was just an idiot wildseed with no magical ability, who would throw her birthright away.

He'd been pacing the aisles of the classroom, and when his eye had landed on me, he'd swept in front of me, bending over the desk to peer at my hands. "Wrists parallel, Miss Moon," he'd said, holding his own hands up to show me. "Stiff index fingers, flexible thumbs. Watch." He'd executed the spell with practiced ease as I'd stared at his hands, not daring to blink lest I miss some crucial detail. "Try it," he'd said, then watched as I'd lifted my hands. Compared to his deft casting I was slow and clumsy, but when I'd released my hands, a slight breeze appeared, lifting his hair before dying down again. I'd looked up, surprised, but Hieronymous had only given me a curt nod, and swept down the aisle and away.

That had been the first spell I'd ever cast - but not just that, it had been my first tiny inkling that perhaps the teacher who had frightened me so much the day before wasn't so bad after all.

"You cast one-handed," Hieronymous says, bringing me back to the present. "That tends to be beyond the ability of most sophomores."

I hadn't even considered that. "I just could see where it needed to go," I say, unsure if this is the right way to describe the sensation I'd felt, casting with that red ribbon tangled in my fingers. "It was obvious."

"It was also quite powerful, as I'm sure you noticed."

"I didn't mean it to be," I say, feeling a little confused. "It was just a breeze spell."

Hieronymous's expression doesn't change, and somehow his careful non-reaction alarms me. "What's going on?" I ask. "Is there anything wrong-"

"I don't know, but it may be advisable for you to refrain from casting anything further for the moment," Hieronymous answers quickly, then stands and strides to Damien. He starts speaking quickly, in a voice too low for me to hear.

I struggle to a sitting position, feeling mildly dizzy, and look around. We're still at the entrance to the cave, although I seem to have been carried as far away from it as the space will allow.

Hieronymous and Damien are in front of me, Hieronymous still talking at Damien, who doesn't seem to like what he's hearing. He shakes his head once, briskly, letting his violet hair fall forward, then steps toward me, Hieronymous glaring at his retreating back. Damien crouches in front of me, squinting into my face.

"Didn't think you'd get out of there alive, ice princess," he says, and it's impossible to tell whether he's pleased or disappointed.

"How did I get out?" I ask. "Did Hieronymous-"

Damien snorts, and grins in an unpleasant way. "Hardly. He tried to go in when we heard you scream the first time, but Jubal caught him. He was spitting mad," Damien continues, with a chuckle. "But then you started screaming again and - well, it got to be a little too much for Bruno over there."

Damien looks over my shoulder and I turn to see Bruno sitting on a nearby rock, head in es hands and snuffling, with es guard partner - Jubal, I assume - standing over em in a disapproving way. "Looks like someone has a crush on you."

"Oh - no, e just thinks I'm a kitten," I say dully.

"Some kitten," Damien says, smirking. "You look downright creepy with those eyes."

"Gee, thanks," I say, "you're not exactly a fairy tale prince yourself, you know."

"There are quite a few who'd beg to differ on that point," says Damien, but whatever else he might have said is cut off by Hieronymous stepping toward him.

"Mr. Ramsey," he says, "I _asked_ you-"

"Yeah, I heard you the first time," Damien snaps. "I need to think about it."

"And what is there to think about?" Hieronymous asks, voice sour.

"I need to think about what to tell all them - the guards - down there," Damien replies. "I was kind of counting on you dying in there, ice princess," he says to me, over his shoulder. "Now she's alive, I need to think of a reason to take her back."

"Sorry to disappoint," I say, and am pleased to hear that some of the snap is back in my voice. Damien snorts and doesn't answer; he starts to pace around the clearing instead.

"Think you can stand?" Hieronymous asks me. When I nod, he holds out one hand and helps me to my feet.

We watch Damien pace for a moment before I say "what did you ask him?"

"To allow us to return to his - ah - 'palace,' as it were, so that I might attempt to determine what has happened to you."

"Can't we just leave?" I ask, "just teleport out of here while he's distracted?"

Hieronymous shakes his head. "Not before I tell him how to cure Mr. Al-Sharif," he says, "if you recall, I gave my word on that count. Further, I have some hesitation about taking you anywhere else at the moment. Travel to the Otherworld was only meant to be a stopgap measure, as I'm sure you recall. But I don't believe there is anywhere else safer for the pair of us at the moment than in a fortress surrounded by a demon army."

"Even if you think Damien might be pals with Professor Terrec?" I say. "What if he has, like, an open invitation to the castle?"

"On that point," Hieronymous says, "I hope to set our minds at ease very shortly." He fixes his eyes on Damien and smiles in a way that makes me think that if I were Damien, I would be pretty worried right about now.

Damien, in the meantime, seems to come to a decision. He snaps his head up, then strides toward us with purpose. "Up," he snaps to the pair of demons, who follow him without question. I duck my head, not quite able to look Bruno in the eye. From the way Jubal has one clawed hand clutching Bruno's arm, I get the feeling that Bruno is in disgrace for saving me.

 _Just another person used_ , I think. _Well, demon, but it_ _'s the same thing_.

"I couldn't just _leave_ it in there," Bruno moans to the stone-faced Jubal. "It's cruel!"

"Come on, ice princess," Damien says, passing in front of me and Hieronymous. "Time to go down the hill."

"And what are you going to tell your… army?" Hieronymous asks, just the slightest hint of sarcasm to his tone.

" _Guards_ ," Damien says, irritably. "And wouldn't _you_ like to know. If it doesn't work, I'm going to let them have her."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I ask.

"Pray you don't find out," Damien purrs, then starts off down the path again.

We proceed in the same order - Damien at the head, me and Hieronymous, then the two demons. Bruno snuffles all the way down. None of us says much, though I catch Hieronymous sneaking sidelong glances at me from time to time.

I hear the demon horde before I see them, a muttering, murmuring mass, biding time until their king makes his reappearance. And when Damien steps into view, there's a rippling hush as the demons quiet themselves. Damien holds up one hand until there's silence, then turns back to me.

That's my cue, I suppose. I decide not to think about it too much, and step out beside Damien.

The reaction from the demons is not very encouraging. They start muttering among themselves again, and their tone is decidedly sinister. I catch several of them looking my way, then looking back again, their eyes narrowing, mouths turning down.

I try to feel scared of these huge figures who could rip me limb from limb if they had the mind, but somehow all I feel is numb. _Just get it over with_ , I find myself thinking, as I follow Damien toward the ranks.

When we reach the guard captain, he bends his head to speak to Damien - then draws back abruptly, his yellow eyes going wide. He raises one hand, lifting his outer fingers, but folding his middle two fingers under his thumb.

The captain hisses to Damien in a voice too low for me to hear at my distance. Damien stares at me, looking skeptical, but when he shakes his head, the captain redoubles his effort, getting slightly louder. I feel too nervous to move, and glance around me instead. The other demons, seemingly curious, have come closer, but as I glance at them, they all shrink back, some of them making that same curious gesture the captain did, some of them ducking back into the crowd, others staring shamelessly at me and muttering to each other. I look back to Damien, alarmed.

Damien is still listening to his captain, but he's stopped shaking his head. He too is staring at me, eyes narrowed, and when the captain finishes speaking, he turns. "A golem?" he says, and the captain nods. Damien looks back at me.

"What does that mean?" I ask. "What do you mean, golem?"

Damien doesn't answer, but his mouth curls into a smile.

I glance around and find Hieronymous a few feet away. He's staring at me, that same look of concern on his face - which only scares me more.

"Well, ice princess," Damien says. "You've been upgraded."

"What are you saying?" Hieronymous asks, his voice sharp.

"She's not a sacrifice," Damien says. "She's a weapon."


	39. Chapter 39

Damien turns back to the guard captain and starts talking quickly. "We're taking her back to the palace - fast as we can. The minute - the _second_ we are out of sight of the mountains, we teleport back-"

"Your majesty!" the captain says, finally loud enough for me to hear, and sounding as though he's torn between fawning respect and abject terror. "To bring a golem to the palace would be suicide-"

"Why?" Damien tosses back, offhandedly. "Anyway, she's not just a golem, she's _my_ golem." He turns from where the captain is spluttering for something to say, and faces the rest of the ranks. "Hear that?" he shouts, voice once again ringing in the echo of the mountain range. "I toss a filthy little human witch into the caves, and what comes out?" He takes my arm by the wrist and lifts it in the air, as though I've just won the gold medal for the hundred meter sprint. " _Death!_ " Damien screams, and about half the assembled guards cheer. Damien continues, unperturbed. "Death to humans!" he shouts. This gets a more enthusiastic cheer. "Death to faerie!" An even louder cheer, with some clanging swords on shields. "Death to the oppressors! Death to the slaughterers!" And on, and on, the mass before me becoming more clanging and clamorous with every new threat, Damien wrenching my arm nearly out of its socket, my breath rising, panicky into my throat.

The only reason I don't struggle is that Hieronymous is next to me, muttering in my ear. "Just play along and don't panic - I'm right here-"

"Yeah, play along, ice princess," Damien hisses in my other ear, mockingly sibilant, when he no longer has to goad the horde into cheers. "See how much they all love you?"

"Why do they love me so much?" I hiss back.

"You're going to lead them in glorious slaughter, of course," Damien says with a smirk.

"Oh," I say.

When the captain decides that the celebration has gone on for long enough, he shouts "form ranks!" The demons snap into place with brisk efficiency, including Jubal and Bruno, who doesn't seem to be in disgrace anymore. Damien strides to the palanquin, and I scurry after, as the thought of hiding behind a set of curtains seems extremely appealing right now. I let Damien hand me up into the cushioned platform without thinking too much about it, and feel surprised - and a little gratified - when I catch Hieronymous narrow his eyes a bit at this.

"Don't be jealous," I mutter as he settles himself next to me, propping his back against the palanquin frame. Hieronymous only rolls his eyes at me in answer, which makes me grin all the harder.

Once Damien is seated on his chair, I take a breath. "Okay," I say, "what's a-"

I'm stopped as the palanquin is hoisted into the air with a speed that sends my stomach plummeting to the ground. The demons carrying us, as well as the ranks of guards that surround us, break into a dead run. My question dies in my throat, and I have to concentrate my full attention on two things - holding onto the palanquin frame for dear life, and not being sick. Hieronymous too begins to look a bit green around the edges, and his knuckles go white as they clutch the cushion between us. Only Damien seems to take it in stride - he looks pleased at his subjects' progress. I suppose it's understandable for him, but all I feel is dread. _If the guards can charge like this_ , I think, _what can the army do?_

The speed and endurance of the demons is remarkable - they don't seem to slow or tire, though I hear the sound of panting after some time passes. Soon after that, there's a call from the front of the ranks, and the entire guard begins to cast at once, still running.

"Look!" I gasp, awestruck by the sight. It's as though the entire flank of guards beside the palanquin has drawn bright blue ribbons from the sky and are tying them, all together, into one enormous and intricate knot that surrounds us as it grows, nearly blocking out the sky.

The scenery changes abruptly as we all teleport _en masse_ , and find ourselves back at Damien's fortress of a palace. We begin to slow as we enter the courtyard, then, with another roar from the captain, come to a halt.

The palanquin is lowered much more gently to the ground, and I descend, feeling wobbly both from our transport, and from whatever it was I'd experienced in the cave. The bright lights and milling creatures around me now seem surreal, almost as though they're being projected on a screen that surrounds me.

Before I can take more than two steps away from the palanquin, Damien grabs me by the arm, the tips of his fingers digging into my flesh. Before I have time to gasp out "hey!" Damien has shoved me behind one of his wings, and has turned on Hieronymous as he steps to the ground.

"All right," Damien snaps, "I did what you asked; I kept my word. Now you get to keep yours."

"Or what?" Hieronymous says, eyes narrowed.

Without another word, Damien jabs one elbow behind him, catching me just below my sternum. At any other time, this would knock the breath out of me and no more, but now, fresh from my phantom stab wound in the cave, it drops me. I fall backward, landing heavily on my butt in the dust. Damien glances over his shoulder, looking a bit surprised at how easily I've fallen, but his face quickly hardens and he turns back to where Hieronymous is striding toward us.

"Don't move!" Damien says, casting quickly, pausing just before releasing whatever spell he's prepared into the air. Hieronymous stops, glancing first to Damien's hands, then to me. I've scrambled to my knees and snatched a piece of red ribbon from the air, tying it into the biggest flare spell I can muster - but before I release, I meet Hieronymous's glance. He gives me a quick shake of the head, and I grit my teeth before breaking the ribbon between my hands and cutting off the spell.

Hieronymous glances back up to Damien and gives him a thin-lipped smile. "All right," he says.

I get to my feet, incredulous, but nothing about Hieronymous's expression indicates that he's anything but serious. Damien, too, seems a little shocked at Hieronymous's ready acquiescence, but recovers quickly. Only his nervous brush of hand through hair indicates that he's still flustered as he says "good. Good. Let's go then."

He reaches back and takes me by the arm again, slightly more gentle this time, but I still chafe in his grip. _I could have taken him right there_ , I think, a sour taste in my mouth. _What_ _'s the good of having me get my magic back if you don't let me cast, anyway?_ Any other thoughts that might have followed are cut off as Damien links his arm in mine and teleports.

The bright light of outdoors is clapped out, and I find myself standing in the shadowed bedroom where Ahmed is lying still and silent. The sudden transition is a little too much for my already overwhelmed senses, and I stagger on the cold stone of the floor. Damien lets go of my arm to sweep to Ahmed's bedside, and I'm left to grasp the arm of the sofa, taking deep breaths and trying to get my equilibrium back. Only a moment passes before I hear the quick pop of displaced air as my husband teleports into the room at our heels. Hieronymous stays in place, assessing everyone's station in the room, then crossing his arms in front of him, waiting.

When Damien turns, his face is a pale moon in the cloistered dark of the room. "All right," he says. "Fix this, will you?"

"That wasn't the deal," Hieronymous says, raising his eyebrows a hair's breadth.

Damien grimaces, jutting out his jaw and showing his lower fangs. I freeze, one hand on the sofa and one hand pressing my chest, although I don't remember raising it. I glance at my husband, cutting my eyes quickly to Damien, and raising my own eyebrows in a question. Hieronymous responds by slightly lifting one hand in a clear gesture - _not yet_ \- and lowering it again. I'm frustrated but a little relieved; I want to see Ahmed safely awake as much as Damien does, and taking Damien out isn't going to advance that goal.

"The deal was that you-" Damien starts, petulant.

"The deal was that I _tell_ you what you need to do to see Mr. Al-Sharif safely out of his present state," Hieronymous interrupts. "After that, I'm afraid that it is up to you to actually save him, Mr. Ramsey."

Damien narrows his eyes into slits, but doesn't move from Ahmed's side. Slowly, almost daintily, he places both of his palms on the coverlet, fingers spread wide. He takes in a breath. "All right," he says. "Tell me what to do."

"And you'll do it?" Hieronymous asks, and although the expression on his face is outwardly inscrutable, I could swear that he was trying to keep from smiling.

Damien closes his fists on the coverlet, the cloth spurting through his fingers as he clenches his grip. "I will do _anything_ to see him safe," he says. "Now _tell_ _me_."

"Fine," Hieronymous says. "Take him home."

Damien doesn't move for long enough that I begin to doubt that he'd heard. Then the word comes out in a hissing whisper. "What?"

"I said take him home," Hieronymous says, tone a little too light. "Out of the Otherworld. Back. The only way he will ever awaken is if you take him out of this place, and back to where he belongs."

Damien doesn't move. "There has to be another way," he says, voice very quiet.

"I'm afraid not," Hieronymous replies, his tone dismissive. "What you seem to fail to understand is that the Samhein rite is a sort of spell in and of itself. Once the requisite steps have been enacted, the effect upon the spell's object is permanent so long as that object remains in the Otherworld. To break the spell-"

" _NO!_ " Damien screams and flings a blast spell at Hieronymous. My husband, however, seems to have expected such a reaction and handily blocks the spell before it gets anywhere near him. Damien, thus thwarted, stops casting spells and instead flings a water pitcher that had been on Ahmed's bedside table. His aim is terrible, and Hieronymous doesn't even have to duck to avoid the projectile before it smashes into the near wall. " _NO!_ " he shouts again, this time grabbing a glass and tossing it, this time barely attempting to aim. It smashes closer to my head than Hieronymous's. Damien whirls, grabbing the curtain draping the window in both hands, and dragging it off of its hooks, once again bathing the room in sickly yellow light. He tosses it onto the foot of Ahmed's bed, them moves toward the sofa. I jump back just before Damien upends it, then kicks it for good measure.

Damien continues a swath of destruction through the room, knocking over heavy lamps and tearing cushions, strewing feathers across the floor. Hieronymous is no longer the object of his rage - he seems intent on ravaging whatever inanimate objects happen to come into his line of vision. And all the while he's shouting " _I_ _'m not letting him go - I just got him - I can't do this without him - he's mine!_ "

The two demon guards that had been flanking the door are now peering cautiously around the doorframe as their king throws a tantrum in his comatose boyfriend's bedroom. Damien catches sight of them while exploding a hanging lantern with a fracture spell, and storms out of the room, hurling invectives at them. The two demons are sent on a hurried march with Damien at their heels, cursing in two languages - one of which I assume is demon. His voice echoes through the stone passages and vanishes.

I lean out of the doorframe watching them go, not quite certain of what's just happened. I'm interrupted by my husband who clears his throat behind me.

"Well," he says, "now that we've got that sorted, shall we?"

"Ah-" I say, turning to where Ahmed is still lying on the bed. He's largely been spared the destruction that Damien has wreaked upon the room, although the embroidered curtain is now draped diagonally over the bed.

"He'll be all right," Hieronymous says. "I don't believe that Mr. Ramsey will allow him to come to any harm."

"I guess," I say. "I just hate to leave him alone." I do have to admit, though, that Damien doesn't seem very inclined to hurt Ahmed just now - and he's probably safer here than he would be if I tried to teleport him out of the Otherworld myself. So instead of arguing further, I turn and follow Hieronymous out of the room.

I don't quite remember the route the demons had taken us on the way to our guest room, but Hieronymous seems to, so I only follow. From time to time, I raise my hands a little, and every time I try, I manage to pull a ribbon made of light through the ceiling of this so-called palace. I wind them around my fingers, fascinated, twisting them into patterns and letting them go again, always stopping just short at forming a spell. It's strange, but I seem to instinctively understand what patterns the ribbons need to be woven into in order to complete spells. I try weaving a blue and black ribbon together, and am gratified by how easily they twist into an entirely new pattern, affecting the impact that either would have on the objects around them.

I'm just beginning to wonder whether Hieronymous would mind if I tried casting something - just as a test - on the wall, when I realize we've reached our room. Hieronymous lets me walk in first, then follows after, shutting the door behind him.

Far from feeling awkward as I had this morning, being shut in with only Hieronymous is a relief after spending the day surrounded by demons and that thing - whatever it was - in that cave. The events of last night now seem very distant and inconsequential - all that matters now is that I'm safe in a room with someone who is actively concerned with my welfare.

Hieronymous too appears to relax once the door to the room is shut. He stretches a bit, shifting his shoulders as though they're stiff, then turns to me. "Would you mind sitting on the sofa? Or lying down, whichever you prefer."

I don't answer but sit on the edge of the sofa, hunching my shoulders a little around my ears. I can't help but feel a little like I've just walked into a Saturday morning detention.

Hieronymous walks away from me a few steps, then turns, sizing me up. His interest is not at all intimate, but almost clinical. He stares at me as though I was a particularly interesting artifact, one for which he hasn't quite determined a useful purpose.

After a long silence, he says "tell me what happened in there."

I hiss my breath through my teeth. There's absolutely nothing that could induce me to explain the illusion that the creature had placed in my head, so I decide to skirt around it, only explaining how I'd encountered the creature, that it had offered to play a game with me in exchange for something I wanted. "So we - ah, played," I conclude, "and I won. So I asked for my magic back."

"And then?" Hieronymous says.

"Well, I guess it - stabbed me? That's what it felt like, I mean, but-"

"Where?" Hieronymous asks.

"Um. Here," I say, putting my fingers where the creature had stabbed.

"Are you in pain?" he asks.

"No," I reply, which is true - the phantom wound now doesn't even throb. "There's not even a hole in my sweater - see?" I stretch the fabric out before me, feeling a little silly.

"Hm," Hieronymous says, rubbing at his mouth. "Would you - ah - mind awfully if I - ah."

I look at him, puzzled, until I realize. "Oh - look at it?"

He cuts his eyes away, and I feel myself flush. "It's fine," I say. "No big deal, right?"

I scoot back on the sofa and lie down, then lift my sweater and t-shirt to just beneath my bra, clenching the fabric between my closed fists, inwardly thanking the creature that it hadn't stabbed any higher, and hoping that my exposed stomach isn't revolting. Hieronymous doesn't seem revolted - only curious. He sits on the edge of the sofa, and peers at my torso, his gaze once again entirely clinical.

"Do you see anything?" I ask after he's looked for a minute. I crane my neck forward, trying to see over my sweater, but am unsuccessful.

"No, I can't," Hieronymous says. "There's no mark at all." He raises one hand and hovers it over my torso, then glances at me. "Is this all right?" he asks.

I start a little, as the memory of his hands on me the night before jumps into the foreground of my brain, but try not to show it. "Yeah, sure," I say, a little too breezily, "fine."

If Hieronymous notices my discomfiture, he doesn't show it. He keeps his face blank as he runs his fingers lightly over the bottom of my rib cage, prodding slightly when they reach the middle. "Hm," he says, knitting his eyebrows a bit.

"What?" I ask, desperate for any kind of distraction. "Do you see something?"

"In point of fact, no," he replies. "There is no visible wound that I can make out. However, there seems to be an anomaly."

"What is it?" I ask, real interest taking over my faked interest.

"Just here," he says, pressing again in the hollow below my sternum. "Your skin is very cold."

"Really?" I say. "Let me try!" I press my own fingers to the same spot, but am disappointed. "I don't feel anything different," I say. The skin there is no colder or warmer than that surrounding it.

I wait for Hieronymous to touch my skin again, or maybe say he was mistaken, but he does neither of those things. He just knits his brows further, the line between between them growing more prominent. "I'll try a few diagnostic spells," he says, "although I'm afraid they may be a bit primitive. As I told Mr. Ramsey, I am neither a healer nor a doctor - but I'm afraid we shall have to cope with the resources available to us."

He sits still for a moment before I realize he's waiting for my permission to continue. "Sure," I say, "go ahead."

He goes ahead, launching into a spell made almost entirely of green ribbons of light. I watch as he weaves the pattern together, forming a complicated knot. I can't help noting as he goes that it would be a little easier to form the pattern if he didn't insist on only using his hands to cast - if he twisted some of the ribbons around his arms, for example, or tried swirling them around his body, they'd fall into place more neatly. But I decide not to say anything that might break his concentration.

When the pattern is complete, Hieronymous settles it over me, and then opens his hands to release it. I feel a buzzy little rush as the ribbons sink into my skin and through my body, it's almost pleasant. I wait for the spell to complete itself, but when it does, there's no change to the expression on Hieronymous's face. I open my mouth to ask what he saw, but he interrupts me by launching immediately into another spell.

He casts another three or four times, the last one so big and complex that it takes him over five minutes to cast it. This one is mostly green, with the odd ribbon of blue and white interspersed among the pattern. When he releases it, the spell feels heavy on my skin before it disburses. I keep still, waiting for it to finish, waiting for Hieronymous's expression to clear. But again, once the spell is complete, Hieronymous looks as concerned - no, _worried -_ as ever. He gets up from the sofa and begins to pace around the room's walkway, rubbing his mouth with one hand.

I sit up, pulling my sweater down over my stomach, not daring to interrupt lest I disturb some vitally important train of thought. He takes so long that I start thinking about excusing myself to the bathroom, but he suddenly whips toward me before I can say anything.

"I want you to try something," he says, his voice sounding dry and irritated. "Cast something elementary - a push spell, all right?"

I raise my hands, but he interrupts. " _Not_ at me," he says. "Try - try one of those." He points to one of the cushions set on the back of the sofa. "Push it. Just a few inches. "

"Okay," I say, a little baffled by the request, but willing to comply. I raise my hands again, pulling a red ribbon into them, and forming the simple pattern required for a push spell. It seems correct as I cast, but when I release, I'm shocked when the cushion at which I'm aiming doesn't move a few inches. Instead, it shoots off the sofa, flying toward the opposite wall where it explodes in a burst of feathers.

Both of us stare at the wreckage of the cushion before turning toward each other again.

"I didn't mean to!" I say quickly. "It - it just got away from me. Let me try again-"

"No," Hieronymous interrupts. "Please don't." He takes a step toward me, stops, then starts again, pausing when he reaches the sofa. "I'd like to try one more spell, if you don't mind. Would you lie down again, please?"

I acquiesce, easing myself onto the cushion, and watching as Hieronymous begins to cast once more. To my surprise - and unease - this spell isn't green magic. The ribbons Hieronymous is weaving are entirely white.

I can't say why exactly this bothers me, and I try to think of the reason why as Hieronymous continues to cast. Maybe it's because he's so often expressed a distaste for white magic, to the point where he rarely uses that particular branch of the pentachromatic system unless absolutely necessary. Maybe it's that his face is so tense that the skin around his lips has gone as white as the ribbons surrounding his hands. Or maybe it's just the anticipation of the weight of the spell when it settles into my skin.

After what seems like an age, Hieronymous releases the spell, and it sinks into me, slowly and with more force than any of the green magic spells he'd cast earlier. The tingling on and just under my skin grows unpleasant, reminding me a bit of the needling spell Professor Terrec had cast on me at school all those weeks ago. Despite my discomfort, though, I stay still, and allow the spell to work on me, waiting to see whether Hieronymous will react.

Hieronymous does react, although it's not how I expect. Instead of the stoic concern he's exhibited throughout this strange process, he starts violently back, lifting his hands in front of him as though trying to ward off a blow. I'm so surprised by this that I forget that I'm supposed to be lying still, and sit up. "Are you okay?" I ask. "What's wrong?"

Hieronymous is silent for so long that my alarm begins to crystallize into fear. "What-" I start, my lips feeling as though they've gone numb. "What-" I repeat, but find myself unable to continue the sentence.

My husband slowly begins to bring himself under control. He lowers his hands, relaxes his shoulders. Only his eyebrows remain tense on his face, the slash between them as prominent as ever. "I did not mean to frighten you, Eliza," he says. "I'm afraid that I - that is, I did not expect-" He pauses again, takes a deep breath, lets it out.

Seeing Hieronymous so flustered makes the skin on my arms prickle and my breath come short. _Oh God_ , I think, _oh God oh God what_ _'s wrong with me-_

"You've been injured there before," Hieronymous finally says, "Isn't that right?"

 _Is that all?_ I think with something like relief. "Oh, yeah, didn't I tell you?" I say. "It was your - your father. You know, when he tried to take my soul, right?" I think back to Aloysius Grabiner's attempt on me. Hieronymous had been on the floor, unconscious at the time, and I try to remember whether I told him the details of the attack, but fail. "He went like - like this," I say, grabbing under my rib cage with both hands, "and tried to, like, tear me in half or something, but Professor Potsdam stopped him, so-"

I stop, realizing that my explanation is not calming Hieronymous down. On the contrary, he rocks slightly on his feet and looks as though he's going to be sick. My hackles rise again when I realize that what I've just said must be bad news - not good. "What?" I ask again. "Can't you just tell me what-"

"No," Hieronymous snaps, "because I do not yet know. Be quiet for two seconds together and let me think."

I shut my mouth, inwardly seething. _Stop being so damn mysterious and just tell me_ , I think, _It_ _'s_ my _body, isn_ _'t it?_

And then a quiet thought from the back of my brain, _what if it isn_ _'t your_ body _that_ _'s the trouble?_

I shiver, but manage to keep myself quiet, waiting for Hieronymous to figure something - anything out.

But he finally shakes his head. "No," he says, more to himself than to me. "I think I shall have to speak with our… host."

He moves toward the door to our room and I get up to follow, but he holds one hand up, stopping me. "I'm going to ask you to stay here," he says.

"What - why? If there's something Damien knows, I need to know it too, right?"

"I'd prefer that you didn't," Hieronymous says, and as I open my mouth to squawk something indignant, he interrupts. "Because I only have a theory, and if I'm wrong - well. I don't wish to alarm you unnecessarily. All right?"

I press my mouth tightly closed, and glare at him. He narrows his eyes, and snaps "are you going to trust me, or am I going to have to ward this room shut?"

I sigh. "Fine," I say. "Go ahead."

He rubs at his forehead as though trying to fend off a headache. "I'll tell you what I think once I get back. I promise."

"Okay," I say, "just don't take too long."

He leaves, shutting the door behind him without another word, but I sense him casting a farspeak spell once he's out. Almost unconsciously I reach up for a blue ribbon and cast the necessary spell to listen in.

_I need to speak with you. Where are you?_

_Where are you_ your majesty, comes the indignant response. There's something a little odd about Damien's thought process, but I can't quite figure out what it is.

 _I think we can dispense with the petty titles_ , Hieronymous thinks back. _Where are you?_

A pause, then Damien thinks back in a morose sort of way. _Sitting room. I_ _'ll send someone up._

 _No need_ , Hieronymous thinks back, _I can find my way._

_So whattaya want?_

_I need to ask-_ Hieronymous starts, then cuts off. _Eliza, I know you_ _'re listening. Cut off the spell_ now.

Chagrined, as though I were caught listening in on a private phone call, I break the ribbon and cut off the spell. Still, the brief exchange I'd heard between Hieronymous and Damien has only incited my curiosity. I have to hear what they're going to say to each other - but how do I do it if they're going to be talking in person?

I crawl to the back of the sofa, resting my elbows on the windowsill and stare out. The yellow light in the sky is dying, but the bright ribbon of multicolored light is as visible as ever, a shining band that stretches from horizon to horizon as far as I can see. I think for a few minutes then, cautiously, reach out my hand.

What comes at my unconscious prompting is a mix of blue and white ribbons. I'm not entirely sure what I'm going to do with them, but so long as I keep the result I want in my head, my hands move almost instinctively, forming a complex knot that feels right, even though I don't exactly know why.

When the knot is complete, I open my hands to release the spell, and when I do, I fall backward onto the sofa. Well - physically I fall back, but consciously, I feel as though I'm still kneeling at the windowsill. The sensation is incredibly strange, but not uncomfortable, a bit like moving in a dream. I drift from the sofa toward the door, and pass through into the hallway.

Once I'm there, I cast a track scent spell to follow Hieronymous's movement through the halls. I have a bad moment where I think I might not be able to cast with no physical form, but the ribbons of light twist themselves around me easily, and I catch that subtle vanilla scent of books, strong as it moves toward the stairs.

 _Easy_ , I think, and begin to float forward.


	40. Chapter 40

It doesn't take my disembodied self long to drift down the spiral stairs and down the hallway to find Damien's sitting room - I reach it as Hieronymous is permitted entrance by one of the demon guards. I slip through the opening just before it's closed behind him, although I'm pretty sure that if I tried, I could just pass through the closed door. I enjoy being in this close proximity to Hieronymous without him being aware of it - I feel daring, like a spy in enemy territory.

I catch sight of Damien sitting before a low table, turning to glare at the doorway, and am a little startled when he seems to glance at me. But his gaze slides away, and I realize that he's looking at Hieronymous. I relax - as much as I can with no body - and drift forward to stay in step with Hieronymous as he walks towards Damien.

"Well?" snaps Damien as we approach. "Whattaya want?" There's still something slightly wrong with his voice, and as we get closer, I realize what it is. He's sitting in front of a carafe of some unidentifiable brownish liquid that smells quite strong, even though I'm operating without a physical nose. If Damien isn't drunk, he's at least halfway there.

Hieronymous seems to come to the same conclusion, and slows his steps slightly - then continues forward. "It seems I owe you something of an apology," Hieronymous says, and Damien looks up, suddenly interested.

"Oh?" he says. "Good. Because the sooner you tell me how to wake Ahmed-"

Hieronymous interrupts with a derisive snort. "With regard to Mr. Al-Sharif, I'm afraid that I have been entirely forthright. There is absolutely no hope of waking him unless you return him from the Otherworld. And what's more, I think that you know it."

Damien scowls up, squinting slightly. "And why is that?" he asks.

"Because I'm not clapped in your dungeon awaiting some demonic form of torture," Hieronymous says lightly. "I have no doubt that you would stoop to such measures - if, that is, you thought they would work."

This, I think, is a pretty good point, and it seems that Damien agrees. He looks away from Hieronymous and pours himself a glass of something from his carafe, leaning back to sip at it. "So you're here to what - gloat, 's that it?"

"Not at all," Hieronymous replies. "I told you that I owed you an apology, and I'm here to proffer it."

"Then stop fucking around and get to the point," Damien snarls.

Hieronymous continues as though Damien's invitation to speak had been gracious. " I'm afraid that when your guard captain provided us with his assessment of Eliza's condition," he says, "I dismissed it out of hand as being unworthy of consideration. Now, however, I have reason to believe that he was-" here Hieronymous pauses, swallows. "Quite correct," he finishes.

Damien seems to take w moment to register this, then looks back up at Hieronymous. "So..."he says, "she's turned into a golem? Really?"

"No," Hieronymous replies, and then says something that makes my nonexistent body go cold. "Not yet."

Damien raises his eyebrows, and I wait for him to gloat, or scoff, or do anything typical of his demonic self. Instead, he waves his hand to conjure another chair at his table. "Here," he says, "siddown."

Hieronymous sits with wary self-possession, as though trying to assess Damien's suddenly amiable invitation while acquiescing to it. Damien also conjures a glass, fills it, and slides it over. "Here," he says. "Kind of strong for humans but-" he cuts off as Hieronymous downs the glass's contents at a swallow, then shrugs as though to say _have it your way_. "It does the job," he finishes.

"What I need to know," Hieronymous says, as though Damien hadn't spoken, "is how the captain of your guard could make such an accurate diagnosis at first glance when even I could not-"

"Oh, when even _you_ couldn't figure it out?" Damien scoffs, snorting a little into his glass. "You think you're so damn _smart_ but some lousy demon could figure out your own wife faster than you could." He runs the tip of one blue finger over the rim of his glass. "Ooh," he says, relishing the thought. "I bet that _stings_."

Hieronymous stiffens in his chair but doesn't rise to the bait. "I believe that I have already acknowledged and apologized for my own inherent prejudice," he says, "but-"

"But nothing," Damien says. "Is that supposed to make me feel better, huh? Lofty Professor-stick-up-his-ass Grabiner coming around and realizing that demons aren't so stupid after all? And that's supposed to make up for all - all _this_?" He sweeps his arm out over the table, nearly knocking over his carafe. "After the wars, after demonkind was nearly wiped out of existence twice? Getting kicked out of home after home and driven into the waste? All this devastation and oppression and just - just _death_?" His voice rises to a shout at this last, and he points a finger into Hieronymous's face. "You wanna know how come some lousy demon could spot a golem ten miles away when you wouldn't know one even if she were sucking you off?"

"I don't think there's any need for-" Hieronymous starts, but Damien cuts him off.

"Every demon, from when e's a child, is trained to spot golems," Damien spits, "because to demons, golems are _literally_ death personified. _That's_ what destroyed our city, _that's_ what drove us into this disgusting waste, _that's_ what scattered my people."

"A golem?" Hieronymous asks, incredulous.

"Golem _sss_ ," Damien says, drawing out the s as though it were a z. "An army of golems, made out of humans, and controlled by the faerie." He leans back, smirking. "Bet you didn't know _that_."

Hieronymous stares at his hands on the table for a moment before answering "In point of fact, no. I did not."

" _In point of fact no_ ," Damien repeats, mocking. "Because why would you bother to learn all that nasty stuff your people did to mine? Why would you bother teaching it? It's not pink and pretty like our Headmistress. It's not _nice_." He makes a disgusted little scoffing sound in the back of his throat. "All of you," he says, "deserve what you're going to get."

"And I suppose you think that you are the one who will deliver this? Our - deserts?" Hieronymous replies.

"I can't think of anyone better for the job, can you?" Damien says.

"It seems that Yves could not, anyway," Hieronymous says quietly. Damien thumps the front legs of his chair back onto the floor, and leans menacingly across the table.

"I told you, I'm not getting help from-"

" _Spare me_ ," Hieronymous snaps, his voice suddenly vicious. "We both know full well that you could not have gotten so far so quickly on your own. Particularly after you botched the ritual meant to usher you into power."

Damien bares his teeth at this, but Hieronymous barrels on, heedless. "It can't have been easy for him - cleaning up your mess - but I suspect he's been doing so for quite some time. I fact, I would wager quite heavily that he was responsible for engineering your birth and placement among your human 'family' in the first place. Am I correct?"

Damien doesn't answer - he only glares balefully at Hieronymous, but with every word, his gaze retains less force.

Hieronymous seems to sense that Damien's control is eroding, and stands, leaning across the table so that he doesn't have to speak up. "What did he say," Hieronymous hisses, "when you finally had the courage to go to him and tell him how catastrophically you had ruined his plan? That twenty years of his work were now in ruins just because you didn't have the strength to kill one miserable wildseed? Did he threaten to abandon you to whatever fate you could scratch up, while he started over again? Did you have to beg for just one more chance? Did you have to promise him anything - full obedience? Results? An invasion within a certain period of time?"

Damien's look can't be termed a glare any more - it's a rabbity, frightened look that he seems only barely able to control, as though he's trying to force himself from looking around for a place to bolt.

Hieronymous sits again, as though depleted from his tirade. "You're not in control of any of this," he says, with a wave of one hand. "You never were. You might as well tell me what the price of your incompetence was."

Damien looks at his hands on the table and doesn't say anything. If I'd had lungs, I would have held my breath, waiting for him to speak.

Finally, Damien says, "It was supposed to have been all of them. All the demons, united as one people. This - this is just a fraction of the population that's scattered around the wastes. It's all he could convince to come back."

Hieronymous doesn't respond to this, but I can tell he isn't very pleased by this news. Neither am I, for that matter - the massive army we'd seen this morning, only a fraction of what might have been?

Damien continues. "And this stupid poky fort? That's all it is, you know, just an old guards' fort. I was supposed to get a real _palace_ , not some fort I had to fix up room by room when I had the time. And the other demons _hate_ me. I don't look like them, I don't act like them, I can't speak their language. They believe the scripture fine so they're here with me for now, but if I make the slightest mistake-" Here, Damien draws a finger across his neck, making a "kkkkhh" sound in the back of his throat.

"It does strike me as a rather dangerous game," says Hieronymous, his voice cautious.

" _That's_ why I have to have Ahmed with me - can't you see that?" Damien says, a maudlin, pleading tone entering his voice. "I have to have someone who's on my side, and he was the only - only one who I can be _myself_ with-"

Damien buries his head in his hands, unable to continue. Hieronymous stares levelly at him, assessing, then seems to come to a decision. He leans forward over the table. "Did you ask Yves how to bring him here?"

Damien looks up, suddenly wary. "Why?"

"Did he suggest the Samhein ritual as the means to bring Mr. Al-Sharif here?"

Damien shakes his head. "He just - it was the only way to do it safely, he said, otherwise-"

"Do you imagine," Hieronymous continues quietly, "that Yves did not know exactly what would happen to Mr. Al-Sharif if you completed the ritual?"

Damien doesn't stop his head shaking. "It was the only way, he wouldn't-"

"Yves can't allow you to have someone like Mr. Al-Sharif in your life," Hieronymous continues, his voice low, insistent. "He needs you alone - unsupported, unmoored. Dependent."

Damien's head stops shaking; his hands open and close on top of the table.

"He needs you to continue following orders without question. He isn't helping you, Mr. Ramsey. He's using you."

Damien bares his teeth. "Why are you saying all this?" he asks.

"Because I need help," Hieronymous replies, "and I need to know that you won't go running off to Yves as soon as my back is turned."

"Help with what?" Damien asks, truculent.

"With what's to be done about Eliza. It seems demons have more experience than I with-"

"Golems?" Damien gives a nasty little snicker. "What's to be _done_ , huh? Well, what we usually do with golems is we dismember 'em. You have to get 'em down to really little pieces though, otherwise the separate parts just keep coming after you. 'Specially the hands, you have to get the fingers off so they can't cast."

"I'm afraid that is not an option," Hieronymous says stiffly, and Damien laughs again.

"'Fraid that's all I know, _professor_ ," Damien says, reaching for his glass and carafe once again. Seeing him so nonchalant about the prospect of chopping me into bits is what finally causes my temper to snap. Without thinking much about it, I whip out a push spell that sends both glass and carafe smashing against the far wall, leaving Damien to gape at the broken pieces.

I don't notice Hieronymous casting in time to block the spell that sweeps the room, but I do see when he rubs his eyes with both hands. "Oh _God_ ," he snaps. "Eliza. Get back into your body _this minute_."

Well rats - cover blown. I take a moment to assess what to do. Pop back into the guest room where my body's still lying on the sofa? No, I'm not missing the rest of this conversation. Instead I cast a spell that teleports my body down to the sitting room, hoping that I won't mis-cast and send the physical me hurtling through a wall. However, it seems my blue magic is a bit more stable than my red, and my body appears just where I meant it to. I fit myself into it, and there's a satisfying little pop, as though I had a joint slightly out of place, and had snapped it back to where it was meant to go.

Hieronymous whirls on me, furious. "Do you have _any idea_ how dangerous soul projection is?" he shouts. "Witches with _decades_ of experience have lost themselves outside of their bodies, and were never heard from again!"

He takes a breath, seemingly about to continue the tirade, but Damien interrupts. "How'd she learn to do that?" he says, a little slurrily. "I can't do that."

"And thank God for small favors," mutters Hieronymous. He turns back to me. "How much did you hear?"

"What's a golem?" I ask.

Hieronymous starts muttering a string of expletives, running one hand through his hair. I turn to Damien, but he's only fetched another carafe and glass and is pouring himself another drink. It seems he's viewing the whole scene as entertainment.

"I wanted to confirm my hypothesis before breaking the news to you," Hieronymous says. "There isn't any use for speculation-"

"Just tell me," I say, weary of all this prevarication around the subject. "Golems - they're made of clay or something, right?" I have a dim memory of a fairy tale in a picture book - one that I'd found a little scary, about a hulking monster in a twisting, jagged city - but nothing else comes to mind.

"Yes," Hieronymous says wearily, "under kabbalistic magical traditions, 'golem' refers to a being made of clay, created by a wizard to do es bidding. But the term itself is... a bit more broad. The word was used in the Book of Psalms - 'galmi.' It means 'unfinished,' and is thought to refer to Adam before life was breathed into him."

He pauses, and thoughts whir around in my head. "Do you mean - before he had a soul?" I ask.

"Precisely," Hieronymous says. "A golem, in essence, is a physical being with no soul. No consciousness, no conscience, no ability to think for itself. It exists for the sole purpose of following orders."

Damien snickers into his glass. "Do you _hear_ yourself?" he says. "You're, like, this walking textbook. Are you seriously into that kind of stuff, ice princess? Do you, like, have him recite the Encyclopedia Britannica from memory while you-"

I interrupt Damien's question. "But - I can _think_ , I can - I mean - I'm still _here_. I'm not a golem!" I splutter before I suddenly remember what Hieronymous had said to Damien - that I wasn't a golem -yet.

"I'm afraid that whatever that creature in the cave did to restore your magic,"Hieronymous begins slowly, choosing his words with care, "has begun a transformative process. You've seen that you possess far more magical power than you had naturally. That amount of power, combined with the injury you sustained from my father four months ago-" he grimaces at this, but continues. "Your soul is being eroded by magic at an unprecedented pace, and before much longer it will be entirely gone."

I take one breath, then two. "And," I say, my voice shaking a little, "how do we stop it?"

"Eliza," Hieronymous says, "we can't."

I stand there, mouth half open, wanting to say something, but unable to think of what.

"Wow," says Damien, breaking the silence. "That's rough."

No one responds, and we all stay still in silence until I break into a short bark of laughter. "I should have listened to you," I say.

Hieronymous buries his face in his hands. "I didn't want to break it to you like-"

"Like how?" I burst. "How is there any better way to tell me this? What were you going to do - have Damien tap dance, hoping I'd be too distracted to understand what you were saying?"

"Ooooh," Damien says, "someone's in _trou_ -ble."

"Eliza-" Hieronymous starts.

" _Shut up!_ " I yell, "just - both of you shut up and let me-" I stop, gripping the ends of my hair in both hands. I wait for the reaction that's bound to come. I wonder whether I'll start to cry, or scream, or panic, but none of those things happen. Aside from a faint tingling sensation up my forearms, I don't feel anything at all. I slowly lower my arms to my sides, and look back up at Hieronymous and Damien, both of whom seem to be anticipating some sort of explosion.

I close my eyes and concentrate on breathing in, breathing out, breathing in. "Okay," I say, "Okay."

"Are you all right?" Hieronymous asks. This strikes me as an extraordinarily stupid question, so I ignore him.

"Okay," I repeat. "Maybe we should just... think about what to do next. and maybe something will - I don't know - present itself."

Hieronymous grimaces, looking not at all sanguine. "Your - ah - optimism in the face of this setback, while admirable, may not be-"

"Professor Potsdam," I blurt. "She might know something, even if no one else does! If she recovers from that - that thingy, the malachite-"

"Batrachite," corrects Hieronymous.

"Whatever," I snap. "How do you cure it?" I direct this last question to Damien, who's draining his latest cup of whatever he's drinking, and is looking a bit worse for wear. He eyes me blearily.

"Don't look at me," he says. "I don' even know what that stuff was, r'member?"

Hieronymous gives Damien a look of pure disgust. "Yves again, I assume?"

Damien seems to have run out of whatever energy it had taken to prevaricate on the subject of Professor Terrec. Instead of getting flustered, he just shrugs, and says "yeah. Him."

Hieronymous had apparently not been expecting such candor, and seems momentarily at a loss for what to say.

"He told me," Damien says, filling the silence, "that if that pink hag gave me any trouble, all I had to do was throw that - that balachite-"

"Batrachite,"Hieronymous says.

"What _ever_ ," Damien says. "And that'd take care of it. I had no idea what it actually _did_ , I didn't even think I was gonna hafta use it in the first place, since the Iris wards don't register me as a cambion." Damien gives me an anemic little smile, and says "I wouldn't have had to do it if _you_ hadn't called her."

I try to ignore the sickening flop my stomach gives at this. "How about you - do you know how to cure her?" I ask Hieronymous.

He gives me a brisk shake of his head. "Unfortunately, no. True batrachite is extremely rare, and its use in physical attacks is rarer still." He fixes Damien with a glare. "I'm rather surprised that Yves was able to handle the stone without being overcome himself."

"Oh, he didn't handle it," Damien mutters, more into the dregs of his glass than to either of us. "He gave it to me in a lead box. Said not to even open it until he'd left. Stuff's pretty powerful, I guess."

"To say the least," Hieronymous says. "It is possible that Petunia herself may have some information on the subject in her private library, but I believe that we can safely assume that entering it once again is out of the question, considering how many protective spells Yves has certainly put around it by now."

Both lapse into silence as I consider the import of what they've said. I can't be cured without Professor Potsdam, she can't be cured without getting back into Iris, and that can't be done without taking care of Professor Terrec - all of these thoughts whirl around in my head, but don't seem to lead me anywhere except toward a nasty headache. Still, I realize, there is one thing that the three of us can take care of now.

"When are we bringing Ahmed back?" I ask.

Damien, who'd been in mid-swallow, chokes on his drink, and starts to sputter. I wait for him to recover, the high, thin sound of his coughing reverberating in the high-ceilinged room. Damien takes a little bit longer than he seems to need, and I find myself growing a bit restless.

"Well?" I ask. "When are we taking him back? Tonight? Tomorrow morning?"

Damien looks down at the table and mutters something I can't quite hear. "What?" I say, waspishly.

"I _said_ ," Damien shouts, rising from his chair unsteadily and glaring at me, "I have to _think_ about it."

"You have to _think_ about it?" I repeat, slowly, pronouncing the words as though I've never heard them before. "What's there to _think_ about?"

Damien scowls. "It's none of your bus-"

"Yes it is my business!" I shout. "Ahmed is my friend, my husband told you how to wake him - and you're just gonna - what, let him lie there? Forever?"

"Not _forever_ ," Damien snaps back "Just - just until I decide what to do."

"You selfish little creep!" I say. "You don't just get to decide when you're ready! If you're not going to take him back home, then I will!"

"You and what army?" Damien hisses, his eyes narrowed, stalking toward me. "Because if you forgot, ice princess, _I'm_ the one with the army around here. I could snap my fingers and have you locked in a dungeon in a min-"

"I shouldn't do that if I were you," Hieronymous says. His voice is calm and quiet, but stops Damien in his tracks just the same. Both Damien and I turn to where Hieronymous is sitting at the table. He's magicked summoned Damien's carafe over to him and is pouring out another measure of whatever's inside. Once he finishes, he looks up at us, tipping the glass on its edge with one long finger.

"Your trouble, Mr. Ramsey," Hieronymous says, "is that you never would listen in my classroom to anything that you did not think affected you personally. You were here when I told Eliza of the increased amount of magical power now coursing through her, but you did not understand. Very well; I shall spell it out for you, if you require it. Currently, Eliza has enough magical power to bring this entire... _palace_ down around your ears with a single spell."

Everything Hieronymous says - and the tone in which he says it - seem specially calibrated to drive Damien into a fit of sheer rage. I look at Damien, half expecting to see steam coming out of his ears.

"You're bluffing," Damien snaps.

"On the contrary. I've had to stop Eliza from killing you twice today, and honestly I'm not feeling particularly inclined to stop her if she makes a third attempt. As a consequence, I must recommend that you _sit down_ , shut up, and for once in your miserable little life, _think_ about what you're doing."

I watch Damien, holding my breath, waiting to see what he'll do. I'm not entirely sure that Hieronymous isn't bluffing, and am very nervous about what I'll have to do if Damien calls him on it.

Damien looks first to Hieronymous, then to me, and then - to my immense relief - crosses back to the table and sits down. He puts his elbows on the table and rakes his hands through his hair, looking as though he'll tear chunks of it out by the roots. And suddenly, Damien no longer looks threatening to my eyes - demon army or no. He only looks small, miserable, terrified - and lonely.

"Can't there be one thing - just _one_ thing," he says, voice muffled, "in this whole stupid world that belongs to just me?"

My instinct is to go and pat him on the shoulder, but I don't move. "I'm sorry, Damien," I say, haltingly, "But you know you can't think that way about _people_ , right?"

Saying this, I try not to glance up at Hieronymous - but I don't succeed. He, in turn, is looking at me, but I can't decipher his expression. Embarrassed, I glance away again.

Damien, on the other hand, hasn't given any indication that he's heard me. He's sitting there, head in hands, unmoving.

There's a sudden scraping sound as Hieronymous pushes back from the table, and stands. "I think that we ought to give Mr. Ramsey the night to think things over," he says, "bearing in mind, of course, that he does not exactly have a choice in the matter."

Damien still doesn't respond, or even look up.

"Okay," I say, my voice sounding distant, and a little dull. "Good night, Damien."

Hieronymous turns back to me, steps forward and takes my wrist, and in an instant we're teleported back to our guest room.

The yellow light has faded from the windows, leaving only the flickering light of the lanterns to illuminate the space. Hieronymous lets go of my wrist and I'm left in the center of the room, wobbling a little, by the fountain. My face is reflected in the lantern light, rippling and unstable. I feel as though it's my body that's insubstantial, instead of just my reflection.

Hieronymous swallows, his throat clicking audibly. "How do you feel?" he asks.

"I don't know," I say, my voice as wavery as the image in the water.

When I look up, Hieronymous is leaning against one of the room's pillars, arms crossed. He doesn't say anything, but after a time he holds one arm out toward me, and grateful, I rush to him. I bury my head in his shoulder, waiting to cry, but somehow unable to manage even that. I can't even muster the energy to ask Hieronymous what the hell we're going to do now. I just stand there and let myself be held.

"I'm sorry," I whisper against the fabric of his sweater. "I'm so sorry. For everything."

There's a pause, and then slight pressure on the top of my head as though he's leaned his cheek against it. "It doesn't matter," he says.

I let out a sigh, the sound muffled against Hieronymous's chest. "No," I say, "I guess it doesn't."


	41. Chapter 41

What wakes me the next morning isn't light, isn't movement, and isn't noise. It's the most awful smell - worse than Bruno, even - and I start to gag before I even open my eyes.

I roll over onto my stomach, coughing and trying not to breathe in too much. I only manage to open my eyes when I clap one hand over my mouth and nose, blocking the worst of the stench.

I see Hieronymous, looking scrubbed and well-rested, perched on the other end of the sofa in front of a table, a cup raised halfway to his mouth. He looks at me with some alarm.

"Are you ill?" he asks.

"What _is_ that?" I moan, thinking that I might just be sick all over the sofa cushions. "It's disgusting!"

Hieronymous puts down the cup and leans over me, but that only makes everything worse. The stench seems to surround him, and when he makes me lift my head, I realize it's on his _breath_. I turn away, gagging again, and catch sight of the cup.

"What's in that?" I ask.

Hieronyous looks at me warily. "Eliza," he says, haltingly, "it's coffee."

I stare at the cup, not quite comprehending, then look back at Hieronymous, covering my nose.

"You _love_ coffee," Hieronymous says, still sounding wary.

"Well, it doesn't smell like coffee," I protest, but despite my ire, I'm curious. The stench _can't_ be coffee, which I consider one of the nicest smells in the world. I slide myself off the sofa, tentatively approaching the cup on the table. Sure enough, when I look into it, it's full of dark brown liquid that _seems_ like coffee, but exudes the stench in the most concentrated form yet. My stomach gives a lurch - and then a growl as I notice the other items on the table. It's piled high with pastries, some covered in nuts and pearl sugar, some dripping with syrup. Another plate is covered with glistening berries. I realize then just how hungry I am - after all, I hadn't had anything to eat since yesterday's strange lunch on the road.

I snatch an empty plate and fill it with as many items as I can grab before the smell of the coffee overwhelms me. Then I retreat to the far end of the sofa and start cramming pastries into my mouth as quickly as I can. As long as I keep from breathing out of my nose too much, I don't feel so ill.

I've finished three pastries and am working on a fourth when I notice that Hieronymous is still staring at me, furrowing his brow with what seems like concern.

"What?" I say as best I can without spraying too many crumbs.

"You seem to be in good spirits," he says, voice carefully expressionless.

I consider this as I stuff the last of the pastry into my mouth. "So do you," I say, when I finish chewing. And it's true that he looks much better than he has for the past few days since we escaped my trial. His hair is clean and no longer quite so lank, and the dark circles under his eyes have lightened. He's even cleaned and transfigured his clothes, so that he's now wearing a slim, pressed pair of trousers,a dress shirt and a suit jacket. It's probably the first time I've seen him since our trip to England where he's looked objectively good.

I consider whether I want to ask him to transfigure my clothes as well, but the thought makes me suddenly depressed. What's the point of changing clothes if I'm turning into a soulless husk anyway? At least I'm wearing black, which seems appropriate for my own funeral. I push my plate away.

"So, uh," I start, trepidatiously. "How long is it gonna take?" I can't bring myself to say what "it" is, but fortunately Hieronymous doesn't seem to need a definition. He does consider my question, sitting on the opposite end of the sofa and finishing his coffee before speaking.

"I'm afraid that I cannot give you a satisfactory answer," he says, once he's drained his cup and placed it on the table. "As I said yesterday, I do not have a great deal of experience with your... condition. And I do not know anyone else who does. Well-" he starts, then stops, cutting himself off with a shake of his head. "at any rate, I fear the progress will be rapid, though I cannot say whether you have days, or weeks or-"

"Hours?" I finish for him. Hieronymous shrugs, but doesn't look me in the eye. "And then what happens?" I press. "Do I just keel over? Do I become a zombie? Do I turn to stone or clay or what?"

"I believe that you retain your form," Hieronymous replies. "But simply... stop. You won't be capable of any action not specifically ordered by your master."

"And who's my master? Not Damien - right?" I ask, suddenly alarmed at this prospect.

"I don't believe so," Hieronymous says slowly, "but I cannot be certain without additional research. Common wisdom states that the creator of a golem is its master, but that would mean-"

"That thing in the cave," I finish, feeling more alarmed at this prospect than even of Damien having control over me. "But why-" I start, then stop again. It's no good trying to speculate why that shadowy thing would want a golem, and Hieronymous doesn't know any more than I do. I stuff the last of the pastry into my mouth and chew desultorily.

"I am glad to see that the prospect has not altered your appetite," Hieronymous says, and I shoot him a waspish look.

"It's not polite to comment on what a lady eats," I say, and although I've made this particular rule of etiquette up on the spot, it sounds about right. "Anyway, these are pretty good. I bet Damien made the demons learn how to make them for Ahmed, before he-" I stop, unable to finish, as my stomach gives a lurch at the thought of Ahmed still lying still and silent in his room.

Hieronymous hasn't seemed to register my sudden lapse in conversation. "And coffee as well," he says, turning his cup over in his hands. "Are you sure you won't take any?"

"Ugh, _no_ ," I say. "It's probably some horrible demon drink anyway, I can't believe you actually put that in your mouth."

"It seems perfectly adequate to me," Hieronymous replies.

"Well not to me. It smells like… like…" I search my brain for sufficient words to describe the foul odor wafting from the cup. "Like _stank_ water-" I start, plucking a half-remembered phrase from some dark recess of my brain, but almost as soon as I've said it, I cut myself off. "Oh God," I mutter, as I remember where I've heard the phrase before.

"What's the matter?" Hieronymous asks, and this time he looks really worried.

"Emmy," I say. "I forgot about Emmy." The pastry in my mouth now seems the consistency of paste, but with effort, I swallow it down. "It's the same thing, isn't it? With the eyes, and the coffee - and sweets-" I say, suddenly remembering Emmy's predilection for pancakes and Twinkies. I stare at the crumbs remaining on my plate with growing horror. "I'm right - right? It's the same thing happening to her?"

Hieronymous's expression doesn't change. "I had considered that when I saw your eyes, yes," he says. "I can't remember much of Miss King to tell you whether she shared your former predilection for coffee, but it seems reasonable to hypothesize that your shared dietary eccentricities may come from a shared change. It seems that Miss King has remained human for a year and a half following her transformation-"

"That's good!" I blurt, sudden hope filling my chest.

"However," Hieronymous continues, with a grim look, "I told you last night that the nature of the injury you sustained at the hands of my father has expedited the process. It is why you are much more powerful, magically speaking, than Miss King, but it also means-"

"That whatever's happening to me is gonna go faster," I finish.

"That is my current hypothesis, yes," Hieronymous replies.

"Maybe we should test it, then," I say.

"And how do you propose we do that?"

"We go back to the safe house," I reply.

Hieronymous raises an eyebrow. "I do not think that either Miss King or Kip will be particularly happy to see us," he says.

"Yeah, they kicked us out, but that was _before_ we figured out what's going on with Emmy. Once Kip sees my eyes, then-"

"He'll agree to allow us to use his ward as a guinea pig?" Hieronymous replies archly.

I let out a frustrated huff. "Well don't say it like _that_. Let me talk to him - I'm the one that's good with people, remember? It's as much for Emmy's sake as it is for mine - even Kip will be able to see that." There's still doubt on Hieronymous's face, so I say, quietly, "we have to at least _try_."

"I suppose so," Hieronymous says. "And how do you plan on asking our... host for leave to go?"

Damn - I'd forgotten about Damien. "We-ell," I say slowly, "I mean, it's not like he has us locked up in a dungeon, right? Can't we just spiral gate ourselves out of here?"

"Would you care to try it?" he asks, and I stare at him in disbelief.

"I assure you, I am perfectly serious," Hieronymous says. "I've seen you perform red magic spells at an astonishing level of power, as well as blue magic spells that no student at your level could possibly know about, let alone cast. I'd like to see whether you can improvise a white magic spell to send us through the gate. Think of it as part of our experiment."

"I like our experiments better when I'm not the guinea pig," I mutter, but even as I do, I begin to focus my concentration on the ribbon of entwined colors that seems such an integral part of the Otherworld's sky. _Spiral gate, spiral gate, the gate through worlds_ , I think, reaching out first one hand, then another to grasp the magic I need. This time, though, I encounter resistance that I hadn't felt with any of my previous spells. Frowning, I concentrate harder, and a band of white light finally snaps toward me. I entwine it around my wrists, my elbows, my neck. Realizing that I need more intricate knots for such a complicated spell, I stand, wrapping the ribbon around me, crossing and double crossing the strands. Just as I think I might be coming close, however, the ribbon snaps, then dissolves into nothing as I watch in dismay. The magic that had been increasing in power around me fizzles, then dies.

"Hm," Hieronymous says.

"What do you mean, 'hm?'" I ask, my face flush with embarrassment. "I thought I was supposed to be some supercharged weapon or something!"

"Weapon, yes," Hieronymous says, pensive. "A golem is a weapon. An unthinking, uncaring, soul-less weapon."

I knew that - in my head, I knew that was true, but hearing Hieronymous say those words out loud is suddenly piercing and painful. I hang my head, blinking back sudden tears, clenching my mouth to keep my face from crumpling.

Hieronymous sighs, then stands himself. "White magic is spirit magic," he says. " _Soul_ magic. Beings without souls - well, it stands to reason that they may have some difficulties with that particular pentachromatic branch." He shrugs. "I couldn't know it until we tested it, of course."

I've managed to keep myself under control - barely, the corners of my mouth keep trying to twitch downward. "What else - what besides golems don't have souls?" I ask, trying to keep my tone light. "Demons?"

"No," Hieronymous says. "Demons have souls, actually."

"Could've fooled me," I mutter, and when Hieronymous smiles at this, I suddenly stop wanting to cry. "How about you?" I ask. "You hate white magic - maybe you're the one with no soul." I say it without thinking much, wanting to make a joke, but my stomach suddenly clenches around my digesting breakfast pastries as I realize what a thoughtless thing I've just said.

I open my mouth to say something - maybe even apologize, but Hieronymous doesn't look at all upset or angry. He just gives a shrug, and says "that might explain some things," and I smile back at him with relief.

Hieronymous looks away, his expression grave. "Eliza," he says, haltingly, "you do realize that there isn't a great likelihood that we'll find a way to stop this process - do you?"

"Yeah," I say. "I guess part of me keeps thinking we'll figure something out, but most of me is being… realistic." I press my lips together, considering Hieronymous standing in front of me. "You are too," I say after a silence. "That's why you look so… not happy exactly, but calm?" I can't help my voice but turning up at the end, transforming the statement into a question.

"I suppose," Hieronymous says, "that when one's options are as severely curtailed as ours are, it is rather a relief to know that one's only choice is to move forward."

 _Relieved - that_ _'s it_ , I realize. _Hieronymous looks relieved_. "And what happens to you?" I ask "when it's over?"

"Why don't you let me worry about that?" Hieronymous replies.

"Because you're my husband?" I respond quickly. "I'm supposed to worry about you."

"There comes a point where you'll have to let that go," he says.

"Well if there is, we haven't gotten there yet," I say. I step forward, take both of his hands and hold them, clasped, between us. "Let's just say we're going to try. Just for now, okay? Team? Like, for real this time?"

Hieronymous gives our hands the briefest shake. "All right," he says. "Team."

"Thanks," I say. I take a breath, but can't seem to think of anything else to say. My hands suddenly feel clammy and slick in his, and I have to resist the urge to pull them away.

Whether fortunately or not, before either of us can say anything further, the door to our room bangs open, and Damien stalks in.

He gives us both a very nasty look. "What are you two getting all cuddly about?" he snarls, and Hieronymous snatches his hands out of mine.

Damien does not look happy. His hair is mussed, eyes bloodshot, and his usually impeccable and kingly clothes are rumpled. He also smells of alcohol and sweat - which would have been bad at any time, even without skewed senses. As it is, I start to gag again. Damien squints at me through bloodshot eyes. "Is she sick?"

"A complication of her condition," Hieronymous says smoothly. "And how are you, this morning, your majesty?"

Damien glares at Hieronymous, who returns the stare with an innocent expression. The exchange has given me time to recover my breath and stand upright, patting at my chest a little. "Hi, Damien," I say.

Damien glares, as though he can't decide which he hates more - Hieronymous's mockingly respectful tone, or my impertinent one. He also looks as though he can't decide whether to yell at us, or to be sick on the floor.

"Sooo-oo," I say, in an attempt to head off any further outbursts from Damien, "I'm glad you're here, because Hieronymous and I were just about to go visit Emmy-"

"Who?" Damien snaps.

I ignore him. "And I just thought it would be the perfect time for you to bring Ahmed back?" I continue.

At this, Damien looks both sick and furious. "I told you I needed-"

"The night to think things over," I finish. "You had it. Now we're going back to Vermont, and Ahmed's coming with us."

Damien's mouth twists in fury, and he stalks toward me. "Absolutely not!" he says.

"Oh yeah?" I shout back, trying not to breathe in his stench. "Want me to blast this - this _shithole_ into next week?"

"I'd like to see you try!" Damien responds, sending a blast of fetid breath right into my sinuses with every word.

"Fine!" I yell back, reaching out one hand to summon the requisite red magic. But I'm forced to stop when a hand closes around my wrist. I whirl around to find not a demon guard, but my husband.

"Eliza, wait," he says. "He's right."

My jaw drops in disbelief. " _What?_ " I yelp.

Hieronymous lets my wrist go and takes a step back. "Hear me out," he says, "The two of us are currently fugitives."

"Well yeah, but-"

"And if we take Mr. Al-Sharif back from the Otherworld with us-"

"We're going to a _safe_ house-"

"We cannot take any chances," Hieronymous interrupts. "If we are caught, well - due to your current condition, neither of us needs to concern ourselves with the consequences of our arrest for very long."

I know this is true - I knew it already - but I'm still struck silent by Hieronymous's words.

"Mr. Al-Sharif, however, does not have any such… restrictions upon his person," Hieronymous continues. "But if he is caught with us-"

"He goes to jail," I say, dully. Just the thought of Ahmed in that hideous white-on-white prison cell is enough to make the hairs on my arms stand up.

"I want to see him safely with his family as much as you do," Hieronymous says, "but it is too much of a risk to take him ourselves."

I want to argue that it isn't fair, that I can't just let Ahmed languish in the Otherworld, that he needs to be taken home. But I can't - Hieronymous is right.

"Fine," I mutter. "But Damien has to-"

"Come with you," Damien finishes, and now it's my turn to glare at him. Damien gives me a smirk that makes him look almost like his smug self. "I'm coming with you," he repeats.

"Why?" I ask, incredulous.

"I told you," Damien says, "you're not just a golem. You're _my_ golem. I'm not letting you out of my sight until I figure out how to control you."

"What?" I squeak. "But you said-" I start, whirling to face Hieronymous. The expression on his face shuts me up immediately. I can't exactly say what it is, but it's at once both stern and nervous enough to make me second guess blurting out exactly what I'm thinking.

"Well?" Damien asks. "What did he say?"

"That we should go back ourselves," Hieronymous answers quickly. "But I can see you won't take no for an answer."

"Yeah…" Damien says, sounding unsure.

"Well, then, there isn't any point in standing around, is there?" Hieronymous says.

I'm given some time to wash up, and once I'm finished, we gather by the fountain in the guest room. Damien's eyes are fixed on me, and Hieronymous is warily watching Damien. The silence goes on long enough to start to get uncomfortable before Hieronymous launches into a spell.

This is the first time I've actually had the presence of mind to watch someone cast a spell to open the spiral gate, and in the wake of my own failure to cast that particular spell, I find myself paying close attention to Hieronymous's casting. His hands move deftly in the air, twining the ribbon of white light that he's summoned from the sky, but I can't help thinking that the way he's casting is inefficient. He's not using anything but his hands, which seems to make the knots, loops and patterns require more effort than they would if he'd used the rest of his body as well. Still, his spell quickly grows in power and brightness where mine had fizzled, so I decide to keep my criticisms to myself.

When Hieronymous finishes the spell, he throws his arms wide, releasing the magical energy in one huge _whoosh_ , which I seem to feel more keenly than I had even before my magic had been taken from me. A great, flat disc of utter blackness appears before us, but if I look closely, ribbons of white, red, blue and green swirl counter-clockwise - on the surface? In its depths? I can't quite tell - like an optical illusion, it seems like one or the other, or possibly both at the same time.

"Hands," Hieronymous says, and holds his left hand out to me. I take it, then realize that Damien's going to have to link up, too. With a sigh, I take Damien's left hand in my right one, am and at least gratified that he looks just as disgusted by holding hands with me as I feel about holding hands with him. His palm is moist with sweat - _gross_.

Hieronymous reaches his right hand toward the swirling disc before us, and just as the tip of his finger touches the surface, the world around me goes black. There's the now-familiar sensation of going insides-first through the eye of a needle, and the dumping of my physical body upon some uncertain shore. I heave, and the whole of my breakfast comes up in three quick clenches of my stomach. I sit heavily, just managing to avoid the puddle of half-digested pastries, put my head in my hands and take slow, even breaths, praying for the nausea to subside.

When I'm able to look up again, Damien is standing over me, smirking. "Humans," he says, shaking his head.

I swallow, trying to rid my mouth of the acid burn. "Where's-" I start.

Damien points, and I see Hieronymous sitting on the ground as well. He has his head between his knees, and is himself taking long slow breaths.

Damien shakes his head again. "Weak," he says, and saunters off a few paces to look around him.

We're on a familiar-looking patch of land, at the base of a hill with a dirt path winding its way upward. It's the path to the safe house, and just the sight of it cheers me. It won't be long until I see Emmy again. Maybe she's even out walking the wards, and will meet us as we climb the path - that might erode any objections from Kip at least.

When I feel able to stand I do, and walk over to where Hieronymous is still sitting. "You okay?" I ask.

"Yes, thank you,"Hieronymous says - but he doesn't open his eyes right away. He takes two more deep breaths before he looks up at me. "I am perfectly all right," he says again, with a good deal more snap to his voice.

I decide not to protest this, but hold out my hand to help Hieronymous up. He hesitates for the briefest moment before taking it, and standing, shaking his head a little. He blinks, taking in the scenery, then snaps into a spell. His hands fly in the air, summoning a blue ribbon from the sky and weaving it into a vaguely familiar shape.

As he works, I look up into a sky thick with grey clouds. Unlike in the Otherworld, I can't see any thick ribbon of pulsing magic - but it must be there somewhere, all the same. I can feel it in the air - not as strong as in the Otherworld, but present, and waiting to be harnessed.

Hieronymous is finishing his spell, and the blue ribbon before him has taken the shape of a glyph. When he releases, the glyph hangs in the air, and a second glyph appears before it, a mirror image of the first. Both pulse with magic - then disappear.

Hieronymous steps onto the path, motioning me to follow, which I do. Then he looks around, calling "Mr. Ramsey?"

Damien saunters toward us. "Your majesty," he corrects.

"Whatever you like," Hieronymous says through clenched teeth, so long as you cross the wards _immediately_. We have been outside them for far too long as it is."

Damien gives us the beginnings of what might be a defiant look, but then walks quickly toward us. It's a good thing, too, because almost as soon as he steps over the invisible border that wards the safe house, I see the glyph pulse into life again.

 _That must mean the ward_ _'s shut_ , I think, wondering that I hadn't seen it on my trips through with Hieronymous and Emmy. Then again, I seem to be seeing more, even on earth, than I had before my transformation. _Must be my new eyes_ , I think, then shiver a little. _What do golems see with their dead eyes?_

I decide to shake off this morbid thought and trudge up the hill, following Hieronymous's purposeful strides. Damien follows behind us both, wary, taking in the scenery. It's cold, so before long Hieronymous casts the spell that wraps him in a bubble of warmth. I copy his motions, forming my own spell, so I can walk at my own pace. Damien seems not to feel the cold, but he does keep up with the both of us.

 _Soon_ , I keep thinking to myself. _Soon we_ _'ll see her, and then maybe we'll figure something out, maybe… maybe…._ Even if I don't know what's going to happen, I can't help but hope that we'll think of something before I… go.

We scramble over the same crop of rocks, and lean into the path, hefting ourselves up the incline of the hill. The first time I sense something wrong is when I reach a familiar bend, but don't see the widow's walk atop the house.

 _Maybe we_ _'re not as far along as I thought_ , I decide, but it can't be - I remember how the top of the house seemed to grow out of the landscape, tall and foreboding. Now all I see is the grey sky, unmarred by any structures.

 _It_ _'s going to be there_ , I think, trying to reassure myself. _It_ _'s going to be there. It's going to be there. It's-_

And that's when I see it - a twisting, gnarled hunk rising into the sky. I squint, not quite able to believe my eyes - and then I start to run.

"Eliza-" I hear Hieronymous say as I pass him, but I pay no attention. Despite the ache in my legs and the stitch in my guts, I run as fast as I can up the remainder of the path as the house comes fully into view. I cut off the heat spell with a slash of my hand as my body warms up - the warmth becomes unbearable, and even when I'm fully exposed to the frigid December air, I sweat. Just as quickly as I'd started, I stop, taking in the full sight of the house - that is, what was once a house.

What stands before me is a ruin. The entire top third of the house is entirely gone, leaving skeletal rafter beams rising into the grey winter sky. The walls rise only as far as the second floor, but even that far up, they're blackened, broken. All of the windows that weren't boarded up are gone, blown out, destroyed. The house, once safe, is now shattered.

Hieronymous catches up with me, breathing heavily, slamming his hands onto his knees when he stops in his tracks. I feel the warmth of his spell wash over me, but my arms are still prickled with gooseflesh.

"I did this," I breathe.


	42. Chapter 42

"Huh," Damien says, coming up behind Hieronymous and me. "What's this s'posed to be?"

I can't bring myself to answer Damien's question, and Hieronymous is puffing too hard to respond. Both of us remain silent, staring at the wreck before us.

"Did they burn it?" I ask, breaking the silence.

"It appears so," Hieronymous says, once he's finished catching his breath.

"You don't think-" I start, then take a shuddering breath, trying to keep from crying, "you don't think Emmy and Kip are still inside, do you? They didn't burn them too - did they?"

"I suppose it depends on who you mean by 'they,'" Hieronymous says.

"I don't mean 'they,'" I say. "I mean _him_. Professor Terrec."

"We don't have any proof that he was behind this," Hieronymous says. "It could have been other authorities-"

"Professor Terrec set my hair on fire right in front of the council," I say. "It's him." I square my shoulders and start to walk up the remainder of the path. I manage to get about 15 feet before Hieronymous catches up to me again, grabbing my wrist.

"We ought to go," he says. "There's something not quite-"

I shake Hieronymous off. "I can't just leave without seeing if Kip and Emmy made it out of there!" I say. "If it hadn't been for me, they would have been safe!" I continue up the path, and after I take a few steps, Hieronymous catches up to walk beside me.

"Please think about this for one moment," Hieronymous says, sounding as though he has to struggle to keep his voice steady. "How long ago do you think - this - happened?"

I shake my head. "I don't care."

"Eliza, _think_ ," Hieronymous repeats. "You told me that in order to keep the wards around the house up, Emmy had to refresh them every twelve hours. The wards were still up when we crossed through, but I don't feel any residual heat from the building."

I slow my footsteps, then stop, looking up at what was once the house. I'm about twenty yards from the intact front door now, but what Hieronymous has just said has made my skin prickle with dread, and my stomach clench once again. "Can't you cast something to sense if anyone's inside?" I ask. "Alive or - or dead?"

"I was going to propose doing so, if you hadn't torn off," Hieronymous says, faint amusement lifting the corners of his mouth.

"Well, all right," I say, abashed. "But if there's anyone in there-"

"We'll see," Hieronymous finishes, and begins the spell. I watch, squirming with impatience while he weaves a ribbon of green magic into a complicated pattern.

 _It_ _'s so inefficient_ , I think, watching him perform the requisite hand movements to form the spell. _It_ _'d take half the time if he didn't just use his hands_. He continues, weaving layer upon layer until my impatience causes me to snap.

"Here," I say, "look," and I stick my hands directly into the spell, grabbing sections and starting to set them into the correct pattern, wrapping ribbons around my wrists and forearms to get them into place faster. When I do, Hieronymous pauses in surprise for the briefest moment, and the ribbons begin to flicker - but, to his credit, he rallies and continues the spell without further interruption, and the ribbons begin to glow with increasing strength as they grow in power. When everything is in place, Hieronymous completes the incantation, and both of us open our hands to release the magic into the air. I wait, stomach in knots, for the result.

Instead, Hieronymous stares at me quizzically. "What - what was that?" he asks. "How did you-"

"Never mind," I blurt. "Just tell me if they're in there!"

"If who're in there?" asks Damien, who's just sauntered up again.

Hieronymous and I both ignore him. "There's… someone," Hieronymous says, his expression nonplussed. "But I can't tell whom."

"But are they alive or dead?" I ask.

"Alive," Hieronymous says. "Most certainly alive, but-"

I don't wait to hear any more. I'm running again, racing towards the front door, deaf to Hieronymous calling my name behind me. When I reach the door I throw it open without pausing to wonder why it isn't warded - or even locked. "Emmy!" I call. "Kip!"

The main staircase is still intact, but the second floor balcony is a smoky mess, so I decide against trying the upper floors. Instead, I run to the back of the house, opening doors and peering into rooms as I go. All are empty, and I begin to worry about whether I'll need to brave the second floor after all.

The last room in my path is the kitchen, and I slam through the door, breathing hard. This room seems to be the least damaged in the house. The smell of smoke is lighter here, the air clearer, the furniture untouched by flame.

And there's a figure sitting at the kitchen table, their back to me. I can immediately tell that it's not Kip - the figure is tall but slender, and has a full head of hair. And it isn't Emmy, who wore her candy-apple red hair in a tangled mass on top of her head, set with an army of bobby pins. This figure's hair is long, flowing - and silvery-white.

He stands smoothly, and turns to face me with the same serene smile he'd worn in every class I'd taken with him.

"Ah, Miss Moon," says Professor Terrec. "I was beginning to wonder when you would arrive."

Terror sticks my tongue to the roof of my mouth, and I swallow. "Lady Montague," I finally sputter. "My name's Lady Montague."

Professor Terrec's smile drops, and he regards me with his normal expression of distaste, bordering on contempt.

"Fickle, Miss Moon, quite fickle. It is unbecoming of you."

I stare at him, my former shock simmering into outrage.

"What did you do?" I yell. "Where's Emmy? Where's Kip?"

"I assure you, they are quite safe," says Professor Terrec with a thin smile that does not reach his eyes, "for the time being. Unfortunately for them, they will soon face the requisite punishment for practicing magic without citizenship." He pauses, touching the tip of his tongue to the center of his upper lip. "And for harboring fugitives," he adds.

My stomach twists at the words, at the mere thought of Kip and Emmy - Emmy, who couldn't stand to be cooped up indoors - trapped in one of those white-on-white prison cells with no one to talk to and nothing to do.

 _I did this_ , I think. _I did this_.

"I thought you might return to them after your little excursion into Professor Potsdam's library," Professor Terrec continues, "and although you are a bit later than expected, it is quite gratifying to sense your appearance from - well, wherever it is that you went." He takes in a breath through his nose as though relishing being right.

Professor Terrec takes one step toward me, then another. "And now-" he says, then stops, his smile dropping. He bends at the waist, peering at my face, a little furrow appearing between his brows, marring his otherwise serene features. "What have you-" he starts, reaching one hand toward me.

" _No_." A short bark of a word sounds behind me. I don't have to turn around to know it's Hieronymous, but I turn anyway. He's standing in the doorframe to the kitchen, stooped a little and breathing hard, but holding a pulsating ball of electricity that crackles between his hands and bathes his face in stark white light.

"If you touch her," Hieronymous says, "I'll take both your arms off."

Professor Terrec straightens, his brow smoothing, holding his hands innocently before him. "I should think you had gotten yourself into enough trouble," he says, "without threatening the headmaster of Iris Academy as well."

"Acting headmaster," snaps Hieronymous.

Professor Terrec scowls at this, transforming his face from beautiful to sinister in a single heartbeat. "A technicality," he says, "and one which will be remedied before much more time has passed, I believe."

" _Monster_ ," I say, momentarily forgetting the danger I'm in. "It was you - all of it. Telling Damien to take Ahmed - giving him the - the thingy-"

"Batrachite," Hieronymous corrects behind me.

"And you set me up for the whole thing!" I continue, heedless.

Slowly, Professor Terrec's frown smooths until he's serene again - but he still has a crafty sort of gleam in his eyes. "And may I ask," he says, "what proof you have of these allegations? Particularly as you have already had the opportunity to argue before the council - and were found guilty?"

"It wasn't a fair trial," I say. "You doctored the evidence."

"Again, you have no proof," Professor Terrec says, "and even if you had, you are too late. You have been convicted, and it is my duty…" he pauses, arching one eyebrow delicately, drawing out the moment.

I'm about to tell him to spit it out when I feel it - a sputter as Hieronymous's lightning spell fizzles in his hands. He's held it too long without casting - and, it seems, Professor Terrec had been waiting for just this moment. He whips into a spell of his own, casting with his right hand while slashing his left to interrupt Hieronymous's attempt to cast again. Professor Terrec's hands move so fast - inhumanly fast - that it's all Hieronymous can do to defend himself. Hieronymous blocks spell after spell, but when he tries to cast his own, they're quickly cut off.

It takes me several shocked moments to wonder why Professor Terrec hasn't attacked me as well until I realize - he hasn't yet figured out that I can do magic again.

I edge away from the crackling spells between the two fighters, sliding to one side where I think I can cast without Professor Terrec seeing. _What to cast, though?_ I think, panicking. Too weak and I'll only manage to set Professor Terrec off - too strong, and I'll risk killing him, and my husband as well.

 _Maybe I can shield Hieronymous_ , I think, and begin to pull blue ribbons from the sky with one hand while forming a red-based attack with the other, copying Professor Terrec's method of casting two spells at once. _Nothing too complicated_ , I think. J _ust knock him down, and-_

But I don't get the chance to think of what comes next. Hieronymous sees me begin to cast and glances my way - just the briefest of glances - but it's enough. His blocking spell comes a moment too slow, and Professor Terrec's next spell slams him into the corner of the kitchen doorframe.

Professor Terrec whips around, blocking my half-formed spells and pushing me against the far wall. Three invisible hands restrain my wrists and neck, making it difficult to breathe and impossible to cast.

Professor Terrec flicks one hand toward Hieronymous, pinning him to where he landed by the doorframe before turning back to me, panting a little.

"Well," he hisses, baring his teeth in a way that makes me think of one of those deep-water angler fish. "Well," he says again. "Isn't this interesting?"

I swallow against the spell-hand gripping my throat, unable to answer, even if I could have thought of anything to say.

Professor Terrec steps to me, close enough to peer right into my eyes. He slides his hands on either side of my face. They're icy cold, clammier than Damien's hands had been, almost wet. I shudder at the touch, but can't squirm away.

He brings his face in close, closer, peering into my eyes with his own. His eyes are indigo, so deep that they seem like a pair of tiny, mysterious lakes with no bottoms. They would be beautiful if they weren't so scary.

Professor Terrec is now so close that the tip of his nose is almost touching mine, his breath sending goose prickles of revulsion up and down my arms. He stares, unblinking into my eyes for so long that they begin to smart with the effort of meeting his gaze. But then something about Professor Terrec's eyes registers in my brain, and I blink rapidly in surprise. It's a tiny, near-invisible line just past Professor Terrec's iris - so thin, I would never have noticed it if I hadn't been so close to his face.

 _Contacts_ , I realize. _He_ _'s wearing colored contacts_.

I don't know why this realization should give me even more chills, but it does.

"I haven't seen anything so advanced in five hundred years," Professor Terrec whispers, backing away a few inches, and releasing my face from his grasp. "Just what have you done to yourself, Miss Moon?"

I don't know what to say - tell a lie? Tell him the truth? I open my mouth but all that comes out is a garbled wheeze. Professor Terrec steps back and waves his hand. The invisible binds on my wrists loosen, and the one on my neck vanishes. I gulp in air, feeling like a fish flopping on dry land.

Professor Terrec doesn't leave me be for long - he grabs my chin in one hand, in a way that reminds me of the late Lord Montague, squeezing his fingers into the soft flesh of my cheek.

"You'll tell me the truth now, little liar," he says, peering down at me, imperious. "You'll tell me, or I'll kill you where you stand, drag _him_ -" he tosses his head, indicating Hieronymous, "before the council, and tell them that _he_ did it."

I glance to Hieronymous, who's straining against his magical bonds to no effect. Professor Terrec jerks my chin back so I'm forced to look at him instead.

"And they'll believe me," he continues, "especially once I tell them about how he killed his own father."

Anything I might have said dies in my throat, choking me. I stare at Professor Terrec, not quite believing what I've just heard.

"I should have done it from the start," Professor Terrec says, "but I suppose I had to see it for myself first. No one knows better than I that memories can be manipulated. And I simply couldn't believe that such a magician as Isolde Grabiner could have been felled - at the very cusp of our triumph - by a flighty pink fairy and a little girl."

My eyes widen, and my heart seems to stop. _Isolde?_

Professor Terrec's fingers clutch even harder. "The truth now," he says. "The truth, and I'll let you both live out your nasty, brutish, short human lives. _Now._ "

There's nothing to be done - he has me - us. I take a shuddering breath. "A golem," I say, my voice raspy and harsh. "He said I was turning into a golem."

Professor Terrec's lips part as he stares at me. "A golem?" he repeats.

A sudden bang sounds as a spell sends Professor Terrec slamming sideways into the kitchen cabinets. His binds on my hands weaken, and I wrench free, running to where Hieronymous is struggling to his feet.

There, framed in the doorway, his blue face so pale that it's almost white, is Damien.

"Not _a_ golem," he says, " _My_ golem."

Hieronymous has reached his feet and is casting, but Professor Terrec is, once again, too fast. He blocks Hieronymous's spell one-handed as he stands. "You ungrateful little bastard-" Professor Terrec snarls, his face a mask of fury. "Don't forget who set you on your pisspot throne." He blocks another of Hieronymous's spells, moving toward us.

"You tricked me," Damien gasps. "You said Ahmed couldn't get hurt if I took him with the Samhein rule!"

Professor Terrec smirks, his eyes fixed on Damien. I begin to move my hands - slowly at first, then faster as I realize that Professor Terrec is paying no attention to me whatsoever.

"And why should I care about some nasty little wildseed - one who will waste his potential before he even begins his miserable little life? I've done you both a favor, really."

"DON'T!" screams Damien, flinging an attack spell of his own - which Professor Terrec deftly blocks. "DON'T! YOU! SAY! THAT!" Damien continues to shout, throwing a spell with every syllable, all of them blocked almost as soon as they're cast.

Hieronymous starts a spell of his own - but then our eyes meet, he drops whatever he'd begun and instead leans to hiss in my ear. "What are you doing? Do you want to kill us all?"

I shake my head, but don't stop casting - I think my shield spell is strong enough now, but I have to weave a few more ribbons of blue together to make sure, all while holding a writhing mass of red ribbons in my other hand. If I'd even tried to respond to Hieronymous, I'd risk breaking both my concentration and the two spells in my hands.

Professor Terrec is panting and sweaty from the effort of blocking Damien's constant barrage of spells - spells that aren't fueled by any particular skill or power, but by sheer rage. There is no sign of Professor Terrec's formerly serene visage - his face is twisted into a mask of fury. It almost makes him look ugly.

"I should have started again," Professor Terrec snarls, "when I discovered the extent of your incompetence! You could not even ensure the soul of one single wildseed - how could you possibly start a war?"

"You can't tell me what to do!" Damien screams. "My whole life, you've been ordering me around! Well you can't tell me what to do ever _again_!"

Damien rears back, casting something that looks both remarkably powerful and hideously complicated - but as I watch, he miscasts, the red ribbons dissolving between his fingers.

There's no more time for me to shore up my shield, so I cast, raising both handfuls of magic above my head. The red and blue ribbons stream from my hands, bathing Hieronymous's face in parti-colored light. He sees what I'm doing, then lunges away from the confines of my shield. I don't have time to scream before I see what he's doing - he grabs Damien by the elbow and yanks, bringing Damien within the bounds of the shield. Instinctively, I thrust my hand into the center of the red magic writhing above me, grab them in one clenched fist, then bring them all down, slamming my palm to the floor. There's a muffled _BOOM_ that seems to come from a long way away, but that manages to rattle the bones in my skull. I clench my eyes shut, hardly daring to breathe.

When the sound fades from my ears, there's a silence so profound and complete that I momentarily fear I've gone deaf. Then, in the distance, a bird twitters, and I hear leaves rustle in a short winter breeze.

I open my eyes a millimeter at a time. It's somehow too bright and too gray all at once, and when I open them fully, I understand why. I'm staring, not at the interior of a dim kitchen, but at a New England December sky.

Next to me, Hieronymous lets out a breath, then stands. His feet are on a small disk of hardwood floor that's surrounded by debris. We're surrounded by a circle of broken wood, sawdust, and other, unidentifiable detritus. The house around us has been reduced to rubble, save for the tiny circle that had been protected by my shield. I look around, searching for Professor Terrec, but he's nowhere to be found.

"Well," breathes Hieronymous.

"Yeah," says Damien, on the other side of me. I blink at him for a moment, and he turns to me. "I am _so_ glad this place didn't have a basement," he says.


	43. Chapter 43

I stand now, craning for a better view of the detritus surrounding us. The safe house has been utterly obliterated, its form and contents now surrounding the hillside in an almost perfect circle. I notice that several of the nearer trees are no longer standing either. They had been enormous evergreens, and their trunks have been snapped like toothpicks.

I see motion from the corner of one eye, and snap back to myself. Hieronymous is casting again, and from the green ribbons he manipulates in his hands, it seems that it's the spell to sense the presence of someone nearby. I wait, barely able to contain my anxiety as he releases the spell into the air.

"Well?" I say, seeing Hieronymous furrow his brow. "Did I get him?"

Hieronymous gives me a look that I can't quite decipher, then shakes his head. "It would seem that Yves was able to determine a threat to his person in time to transport himself elsewhere," he says.

"Coward!" blurts Damien, his face contorting with rage. " _Coward!_ " he repeats, now shouting so loud that his voice echoes in the chill winter air. "Get back here and _fight_!"

"I do not doubt that he intends to," Hieronymous says, "and that he will come with significant force. Consequently, I would suggest that we avail ourselves of this opportunity to go elsewhere." He pauses, again giving me that indecipherable look that could be disappointment, or maybe fear.

"But Emmy and Kip-" I start.

"Are beyond our reach," Hieronymous finishes, and even though I know he's right, I feel my spirits sink.

"Okay," I say. "Let's go."

Hieronymous begins to cast the spiral gate spell, and I watch in silence. Damien sidles up to me and says "that was some kind of casting, ice princess," but I don't respond. All I can think of is Emmy - poor Emmy, trapped in one of those horrible white cells. _I did this_ , I think, but I can't see a way to undo what I've done.

Now that the adrenaline of the fight is ebbing away, my joints begin to feel liquidy, as though they're shifting under me in a treacherous way, and soon won't be able to hold my weight. I feel hollow to the tips of my fingers, and as though I can't fully catch my breath.

Hieronymous finishes his spell, and the spiral gate appears before us, black and somehow menacing. "Hands," Hieronymous says, reaching behind him without looking back at Damien and me. I reach out and take his hand, feeling as though I'm moving through liquid, slow and cold. But when Hieronymous takes my hand in his, his grip is warm.

Damien's already clutching my wrist, and the three of us move through the gate once Hieronymous touches it. The passage is a wrench, the gate seeming to jerk me, roughly, inside-out, and I heave upon a cold surface, retching as though I might disgorge my own stomach lining, but only bringing up acrid saliva. I spit this onto the ground, and only then open my eyes to find that I've spat upon a marble floor.

"What's _this_?" I hear Damien ask in a sour voice as I struggle to my feet. "I thought you were taking us back to my palace."

"I gave you no reason to think so," Hieronymous replies. "I imagined that following our attack on your noble patron, you might wish to travel somewhere where he would not be able to find you, if he decided to look."

I raise my head from the oddly obscene sight of my spit on cold, rippling marble tile. I'm in a huge vaulted room with a high, domed ceiling. A gallery on the second floor looks out over the expanse of room which seems to stretch, glittering with thin threads of gold in the columns, and shines softly in the milky light that wafts through the smoked glass ceiling. It's a beautiful room, but one that feels coldly grand and imposing. I feel like a stray fly blown into the window of a palace, one who'll be squashed without a thought if she's found.

"Where are we?" I ask, although I have a feeling that I already know.

"Shade of Shetlock," Hieronymous says, tossing the name from his mouth as though it were a dirty dish towel. "The Grabiner family estate."

I don't know what to say to this. Until now, Professor Grabiner's country house, was the grandest house I'd ever seen, and Revane Cottage the most comfortable - ignoring the fact that it had been used as a charnel house, of course. But both of those properties are entirely dwarfed by this massive house. I've only seen the foyer, and even compared to Damien's so-called palace, this place is frankly magnificent.

Damien must think so too, as he's scowling at the room. "It's all right," he mutters, looking as though he's about to start pouting. "So, what, you're kidnapping me? Locking me up here?"

"Think of it as a reciprocal invitation," Hieronymous replies. "You allowed us to stay as guests in your palace; you must allow me to extend the same invitation to you."

Damien turns to glare at Hieronymous - the fact that Hieronymous and I had been brought to Damien's palace in chains is apparently not lost on him.

But there's more on my mind than Damien. This is Aloysius Grabiner's - _Isolde Grabiner's_ \- Otherworld estate. And if Professor Terrec knew Isolde, he might know a way to get in. My palms begin to itch just thinking about it.

"Hieronymous," I start, but he shoots me a look and quickly shakes his head, darting his eyes to Damien, who's examining an intricate ivy-leaf pattern inlaid in gilt on one of the columns.

"There is the small matter of security, yes," Hieronymous says breezily. "I'll just see to that while you two refresh yourselves."

I give Hieronymous an unhappy look - I don't want to be left alone with Damien any more than I want to stay in this imposing house - but Hieronymous only glares back, mouthing something that looks like _keep him occupied_. I sigh, but don't argue any further.

"There's a parlor just there," Hieronymous says, waving one hand towards a door that swings silently open. "I would appreciate it if you would both wait in it. And _don't_ go wandering off," he adds, in a much sterner tone. "I can ward the room so that no uninvited guests can go in or out, but the full estate is another matter."

I grasp his meaning immediately, and begin to walk toward the door. "C'mon, Damien," I say, grabbing him by one elbow and steering him into the parlor. Our steps echo through the hall, sending shivers through my stomach with every footfall, as I wonder who else might be in this vast house to hear them. I steal a glance at Hieronymous when we're nearly to the door, hoping to be reassured by his presence, but he only gives me that same indecipherable look. I turn away.

For some reason, Damien is far more cooperative than he's been since - well, since we arrived in his palace. He follows me without complaint into the side room that turns out to be a small receiving parlor. There aren't any windows, but there is a long, low sofa and a couple of comfortable looking armchairs set in front of an empty hearth. I close the door behind us, then throw myself into one of the chairs, suddenly exhausted. It's only after I rub my eyes and squirm into a comfortable position that I look up to see an immense portrait set above the hearth - Isolde Grabiner in an ivory gown, lips half parted in a sly smile, staring down at me. I freeze, but force myself to meet the portrait's gaze. _You can't hurt me any more_ , I think. _I killed you. Well, helped, anyhow._

Damien gives the room only the most cursory of looks before he stretches himself, full-length, on the sofa. He glowers at me, hunkering into the cushion.

"Are you cold?" I ask. I'm freezing - as soon as I've stopped moving, the air around me has seemed to chill, and I wonder if Damien might be prevailed upon to set a fire in the hearth. I don't want to try any fire spells myself - with my track record, I could burn the entire house down.

"Nah," Damien says, though he's crossed his arms in front of him. We stare at each other for a moment.

"Are you okay?" I ask.

Damien shrugs, but doesn't answer. I decide not to push it, so we sit in silence, me huddling into my sweater and trying not to stare at the imposing Isolde Grabiner above me. At some point, a tray appears on the small table between us, carrying tea and an assortment of pastries, jam and cream. I dive toward it - my involuntary purging of my stomach has left me starving - but Damien ignores it. I watch him, alternately cramming my mouth with a scone covered in jam and cream and slurping heavily sugared tea, trying to shut my nose against the bitterness of the drink that even six sugar cubes per cup can't mask. Damien stares past me, his expression grim.

"Damien," I say, once my scone is finished. He cuts his eyes to me, and I swallow. "Why did you pick me?" I ask.

"What?" Damien says, his voice flat.

"As your freshman, I mean. At Initiation. Why me? Out of everybody there?" The food and tea seem to have had no effect on the odd, hollow feeling I've felt since coming back to the Otherworld - instead, I begin to feel lightheaded, but do my best to ignore it.

Damien squirms a little on the sofa, looking uncomfortable, but finally he answers. "You just looked like the kind of person who'd… y'know. If someone needed help, you'd come running. But you wouldn't think about it that hard, first."

I think about this. "Is that supposed to be a compliment or an insult?"

Damien shrugs again. "Musette was like that too. She wanted to help. But she always had to think it through beforehand." He sighs. "I gave her the most pathetic sob story imaginable - my disease, the death sentence it meant. How there was no hope for me except…." He gives a brisk shake of his head. "But she had to go _thinking_ about it. And do _research_ on it. And then she had to go and get herself expelled before I could-" He stops.

"Kill her," I finish for him.

Damien doesn't respond.

"And me," I say. "You picked me out because you thought I wouldn't ask questions. You picked me out to kill me."

Damien still doesn't respond.

"So why did you save me, just now?" I ask. "From Professor Terrec?"

Damien finally looks up, frowning.

"It's not just because I'm a weapon," I insist. "If it was that, you'd let him have me. You're supposed to be on the same team. So why'd you attack him to save me?"

Damien clenches his chin a bit, wrinkling it, making his frown seem more pronounced and his lower lip stick out. He holds this for a while, and I realize that he's trying not to cry. "D'you think I could face him - face Ahmed, when he wakes up?" Damien says, "if I let you die? D'you know what it was like, getting those letters from him, how he's bored, he's lonely, he's got a total weirdo roommate - someone like _him_ in Toad Hall, can you even imagine? And finally he writes to say he's found a friend, and of all people, it's _you_. I couldn't even believe you were capable of being friends with someone after how nasty you were to me."

"Uh, you were trying to kill me?" I say.

"Well you didn't _know_ that," Damien retorts.

"You said _when_ ," I say, ignoring this last comment.

"Hm?"

"Ahmed. _When_ he wakes up. So - you're going to do it? Take him back home?"

"Well of _course_ I'm going to take him back home," Damien snaps. "What do you think, I'm some kind of monster?"

I let Damien's question hang in the air, unanswered, until he gives an irritated snort. " _Fine_ ," he says. "But I'm serious about this. I'd rather have Ahmed home and awake than with me and comatose."

All my negative thoughts towards Damien are swept away in a flood of excitement. "Really?" I say. "When? Right now? I mean, when Hieronymous gets back we can-"

"See?" Damien says, "there you go."

I don't see, but I quiet down, abashed.

"I was right about you," Damien says, "I just went about it the wrong way. I should've been all aloof from the start, more... I don't know. British-y. That what you're into, ice princess?"

"Can we please stop speculating on ways you could have killed me, given the chance?" I mutter.

Damien shrugs as if to say 'have it your way.' "You want to save people so bad," he says, "but you never think it through. What do you think I'm gonna do - drop Ahmed off at Iris Academy, saying 'sorry about keeping you in a coma for a month, by the way, I just tried to explode your new headmaster so you might wanna watch your back in case he decides to give you detention or maybe try to kill you to get back at me?'"

"Oh," I say. Much as I hate to admit it, Damien's right. So long as Professor Terrec is still in control of Iris Academy, there's no place that's safe for Ahmed. "Will he be okay in your palace?"

"I think so," Damien says. "There's some perks to having a demon army."

"They won't - you know, turn their backs on you?"

"Not if _he_ tries to command them - Yves, I mean," Damien says derisively. "They'll listen to fairies, but only to a point. They wouldn't follow a fairy commander into battle, _especially_ against one of their own kind. That's why he needed me, after all. He had to set me up as the leader. Otherwise, he'd've just commanded them himself, don't you think?"

"Commanded them to start a war?" I ask. "But it doesn't make sense. Why would Professor Terrec want to start a war between the demons and the fairies?"

"Not the fairies," says Damien. "The humans."

I stare at Damien, open-mouthed. Damien smirks at me. "Joke's on him," he says. "Once we've finished with the humans, there's nothing stopping us from turning on the fairies, too. I planned on it all along. I just... Maybe I just...turned on him a little sooner than I thought I would."

I frown. Somehow, I don't think the joke is on Professor Terrec at all. _Now who's not thinking things through?_ I think, but don't say.

Damien does not seem inclined to talk further, and we keep our mutual silence in that cold room, the portrait of my late father-in-law's true form staring down her nose at us in a superior sort of way. In spite of myself, I keep stealing glances up at her, wondering what she was thinking when that portrait was painted. She looks so young - only a little older than I am now. Was she always going to be a murderess, or was there a time when she could have done things differently?

And then Damien - who, in spite of himself, hasn't managed to kill anyone yet. _Yet is the operative word. How far can I trust him?_ I wonder.

None of the questions in my head seem capable of being solved any time soon. They race around my head, leaving grooves in their paths. The exhaustion that threatened me once the fight ended now laps up my extremities, settling in my chest and in my head, causing my eyelids to droop. My stomach rumbles - the single scone I ate hasn't alleviated my hunger at all - but suddenly my hands are too heavy to reach for another. Instead, I huddle further into my sweater and rest my head on the arm of my chair.

 _At least Damien's good at being quiet_ , I think, as the room begins to fuzz around me.

The next thing I know, I'm being shaken awake. I start, and find that my cheek is resting in a puddle of drool - I've managed to soak the extremely expensive-looking upholstery of the chair. Looking up, I see Hieronymous bending over me, and behind him stands Isolde Grabiner. This makes me jerk up in my chair, my hands scrabbling on the arms.

Hieronymous looks over his shoulder, and sees the portrait behind him. "Ah," he says, then barks "take that down." I wonder for a moment how he expects me to clamber up the mantelpiece to take the portrait down, but it disappears almost immediately.

"I apologize," Hieronymous says. "I hadn't realized that was there." He looks at me critically. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah, just kind of stiff," I say, stretching. This is true - my joints crack as I move them, as though I've lain in this position for hours. This may actually be the case, I consider. My stomach has begun to rumble worse than ever, but when I look toward the tray on the table, I find it empty - and Damien asleep on the sofa with crumbs sprinkling the front of his jacket.

I glower at the scene. "Any chance for another scone? I ask.

"Certainly," Hieronymous says, then a bit louder, "another tea please. A proper one, this time."

The tray on the small table vanishes, and a fresh one takes its place with a steaming pot, cups, several varied sandwiches, cakes, and another set of scones, one of which I grab before Damien can wake up and snatch it for himself. Only when it's safely slathered in cream and jam and halfway to my mouth do I ask "how did you do that? I didn't see you cast."

"I did not," Hieronymous says, sitting in the chair next to me with a teacup and saucer. The servants did. Or, rather, what passes for servants in this place."

I don't quite follow, but decide to stuff half my scone in my mouth rather than say so. Fortunately Hieronymous registers my confusion, and continues.

"They are not servants per se, but a series of spells layered into the house. I believe your friend Miss Middleton would consider them similar to a software program. Once sufficient groundwork has been laid, they respond to prompts for... well, food. Cleaning. Washing. Anything, really. Invisible servants who will do anything you like without prompting, who do not gossip or shirk, and who do not require feeding or clothing. Rather a perfect setup for my father - he could never be bothered with the niceties of keeping a staff for long."

I consider this while swallowing the last of my scone, and reaching for a cake. "Are they the security, then?"

"No," Hieronymous says. "That would be the manuses"

My skin prickles, and I pause in mid-bite.

"Do not be alarmed," Hieronymous says. "You are quite safe. The manuses are sworn to our house, and will not harm anyone in the family, or-" he cuts his eyes to Damien, who is now snoring on the sofa, "anyone who I have instructed is my guest. I've had to invoke the rather nuclear option of instructing them not to allow anyone to enter or remain in the house besides the f-three of us."

I furrow my brow at him - did he just almost say four instead of three? - but Hieronymous doesn't look up as he continues. "It is rather tricky to instruct a manus in his duties, as they are constantly looking for loopholes to escape their servitude without technically breaking the contract to which they are bound, but once sufficient instructions are in place, they will follow them to the last."

"So - couldn't we have a manus be, like, our bodyguard?" I ask, "and tell him to come with us and protect us against Professor Terrec? Then we could-"

I cut off as Hieronymous, strangely, starts to chuckle, then laugh, leaning his head against one hand.

"What?" I ask.

"As it so happens," Hieronymous says, "setting a manus up as a personal bodyguard was what I was attempting to do when you so... impetuously crossed my protective barrier and precipitated our marriage."

"Really?" I say. It feels like it's been so long since that day. As I think about it, I realize that in a way, it has been a long time - ten months. Nearly a year since I walked into the mail room, cautious due to the pulsing red light I'd seen from the hallway. Hieronymous had been unconscious on the ground - the teacher who'd seemed so tall and imposing when I'd knocked into him on the first day of school had looked so small and frail, his skin ashen, throat exposed to the demon hovering before him in midair. I remember the feeling of the thing's hands locked around my neck, the monster's breath, saffron and sulfur, in my nostrils and mouth.

"Maybe that was a bad idea," I say.

"Petunia gave me the idea, and suggested that I would be sufficiently out of everyone's way in the mail room. It still rather galls me that I fell for it."

"I'm glad you did," I say.

Hieronymous raises his eyebrows at me over his teacup. "I thought you said it was a bad idea," he says.

"Doesn't mean I can't be glad about it," I say. And after a pause, "I mean it, you know. I like being married to you. Even if it can be a bit unpredictable."

Hieronymous cuts his eyes away, and busies himself by draining the bottom of his teacup. This disappoints me, and I frown.

It's a minute before Hieronymous registers that I'm staring at him. "What?" he says.

"I just thought we'd got past all that," I say, but that's all that comes out before I feel self-conscious and have to stop.

"All what?" Hieronymous says, with a still more irritating veneer of innocence.

I open my mouth to say something, but before anything comes out, Hieronymous stands. "Why not take a walk?" he says. "I'll show you the house."

He turns toward the door, but not before he casts his eye on what was troubling him - Damien, asleep - or just pretending to sleep? - on the sofa next to us. Hieronymous notices me glance at Damien too, and shrugs. "He'll be moved to one of the guest rooms once we leave. He seems to need a good night's sleep."

I look for just a moment longer, seeing Damien as perhaps Ahmed and Emmy see him - just one lonely, vulnerable, blue boy who might always be by himself, unless someone could really understand him. This revelation doesn't move me in the way it seems to have moved Ahmed and Emmy. I don't feel love for Damien, exactly, but I do feel a numb sort of pity.

"Okay," I say, "let's go."

Hieronymous leads me out of the room and back into the grand hallway. I try not to look up at the tiered gallery, at the vaulted ceiling, at the windows five times higher than my height - but I can't help it. The house itself demands reverence, insists upon awe. Every surface is polished to a high shine to allow the soft light to gleam through the windows and to smoke through the ceiling. The heels of Hieronymous's black shoes click softly on the marble floor; my rain boots just make a scuffing sound as we move further into the foyer. As we move further from the walls, I get the disconcerting sensation that I'm walking through the cavernous mouth of some titanic angel, holding my breath lest it sense me inside and constrict its throat to swallow me whole.

Hieronymous leads me past the staircases and through a massive set of double doors. "Ballroom," he says, throwing them open.

The sight of the room is enough to make me drop my jaw in shock. It's enormous - as vaulted as the foyer I've just left, but different in that every surface here seems to shimmer, bathed in light from a set of high, narrow windows in the back of the room. It's a pleasant change from the relative gloom of the hall, and I eagerly step past Hieronymous to enter. The mirrored walls reflect my small form, swathed in black and looking entirely out of place amid this grandeur.

I've walked half the length of the room before I hear a soft cough behind me. I whirl around to find that Hieronymous has followed me into the room. I hadn't heard his shoes on the polished wood floor, and I flush on discovering him so suddenly close.

"Did you go to dances here? I mean - when you were younger?" I ask, trying to cover my sudden nervousness.

"On the few occasions I was permitted to visit Shade of Shetlock, I was not permitted to enter the ballroom at all," he says. "Dancing, I believe, would have been an extravagance my father would not have borne."

"Oh," I say, unsure as to whether I should be sorry for him or comforted that he seems as ill at ease in this grand room as I do. "Don't you mean your aunt?"

Hieronymous shrugs. "It doesn't make much difference," he says. "As it happens, I've been able to discover that I was - ah. Conceived following Isolde's takeover of my father's form, as it were."

"So technically she was both - aunt and father," I conclude. "Weird."

"To put it succinctly," Hieronymous says, his voice as flat as ever, but a faint smile playing on his face.

I decide to change the subject. "That's too bad," I say. "Even during the day, this place is pretty stunning - I can only imagine the way it would look all lit up with candles or - well, I guess magic, or something. Light spells."

"Yes, I suppose," Hieronymous says, though he doesn't sound very enthusiastic.

"Though it'd spoil the view," I say, flailing for something else to say, and stepping towards the huge windows at the back of the room. "It's really beautiful." This, at least, has the benefit of being true. The windows look out over an expanse of rolling green meadow, dotted with picturesque little glades and studded with the odd tree. Closer to the house is a garden that appears to be carefully cultivated so as to appear unkempt and wild. The sky above is pristine azure with only the faintest wisp of cloud.

"That's strange," I say, halfway to myself. "This is beautiful, it's nothing like the view from Damien's palace, is it?" There's no sign of the sickly yellow sky or the twisting black trees. Everything here is healthy and lush.

"No," Hieronymous says behind my back, "this is a rather different location than the one in which we were previously."

"So this is - what, the nice part of the Otherworld? The posh part?"

"You could say that," Hieronymous says. "My family owns quite a bit of the surrounding area-"

"Meaning you own it," I retort, but Hieronymous ignores me.

"And," he continues, "it is considered a rather desirable location. That isn't to say that there are not fairy settlements that do not entirely dwarf this property in terms of beauty, but-"

"But what about the demons?" I ask.

Hieronymous is silent, so I press on. "That book from Professor Potsdam's library - do you remember?" I barely do, it seems as though I read it ages ago instead of two days ago. "It said the demons were driven out of their lands and forced into the wastes. Is that where we were?"

"I believe so," is all Hieronymous says.

I turn from the windows to face Hieronymous. "That's _horrible_ ," I interject. "I don't blame him, wanting to start a war to take their land back - do you?"

Hieronymous only blinks, and flicks his eyes up to take in the view from the ballroom windows. "I can't say I have any attachment to this place," he says. "They are welcome to take it, if they so wish."

I frown, searching his expression for something - anything - to latch on to.

"But you were so upset, before," I say, "just thinking about the potential war. If you don't care-"

Hieronymous sighs. "I don't care about this place, particularly," he says. "It isn't home. But - well. Our world. Iris. Do you think that if an army of demons came plowing through the human and fairy settlements in this realm, that they would stop there?"

I consider this. I hadn't really thought of it before - precisely what a demonic war on both humans and fairies would mean. It isn't that I had assumed that it would be restricted to the Otherworld, but more that I hadn't understood where the demons' borders would fall.

"Do you think they'd come to our - what do you call it? World? Realm? Sphere of influence?" I venture. "Wouldn't they be content with the Otherworld?"

"I suppose most demons would be," Hieronymous says. "Damien, however…." He trails off, and I shiver a little. Had I just thought that he seemed a helpless boy?

"I see what you mean," I say, and let out a rather shaky breath. I turn back to the windows for lack of something better to do. The beautiful view out of them seems almost mocking now. And even with the looming threat of an army of demons overtaking the world I've known all my life, all I feel is an overwhelming sense of pity. "Poor Damien. Poor demons. Poor everyone," I say in a breath. And then, in a rush, "I don't know what to do."

One warm hand closes on my shoulder, and I try not to stiffen at my husband's touch, trying not to show how nervous it makes me. _Is this ever going to get any easier?_ I think, and the ghost of a memory - the false memory planted in my head by that thing in the cave - flits through my head. I feel a sudden sting of envy for that Eliza, for her easy way of flopping on couches and making lighthearted conversation. If I'd had enough time, maybe I could have become that Eliza, but now that future is closed to me. I bite the inside of my cheek, trying not to cry.

"Are you all right?" Hieronymous asks, and when I whirl on him, he takes a step back, lifting both hands in front of him. "That was an admittedly stupid question," he says, guardedly.

"No - I'm not mad or anything, I just-" I pause, snorting a bit through my nose. "I just wish there was some way to stop it all, I guess. Make it not happen. We do technically have the king of the demons in custody though, does your dad have a dungeon under here or something? So we could lock him up until he…" I trail off, uncertain of how to finish the sentence.

"Until he stops believing in his own messianic prophecy?" Hieronymous says, one eyebrow raised. "Do you think that's at all likely?"

"No," I admit. "But it was the best idea I could come up with. What about you - do you have any ideas?"

Hieronymous's expression doesn't exactly change, but it seems to tighten, to become more inscrutable. It's the tiniest of subtle differences, but I surprise myself by picking up on it right away. "You do have an idea!" I exclaim, the roiling tightness in my chest suddenly seeming to burst. "I knew it! I knew you'd think of something!" I'm beaming so hard my cheeks hurt, but I don't care. "Well - tell me, what is it?"

Hieronymous frowns slightly, and the line between his eyebrows grows slightly more prominent. "I'm afraid that you aren't going to like it, much, but-"

"Who cares?" I blurt. "Anything's better than nothing. Please."

Hieronymous pauses for a moment before giving a quick nod. "All right," he says over his shoulder. "You can come in."

Quick steps from the hallway, and a figure enters the ballroom. "Yes, sir," the figure says in a brisk, clipped accent. "I've deposited that… creature in the tapestried bedroom. Though if you'd asked me, which you did _not_ , I'd say it was altogether too courteous for-"

The footsteps stop abruptly as Hieronymous steps aside, giving me a proper view. I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out, save a little breath of - fear? Fury? I can't quite tell, myself.

The figure, on the other hand, has clenched his mouth tight, his eyes narrowing into slits and his hands clenching into fists. He has the same insipid blond hair, watery blue eyes, and rabbity look behind his wire framed glasses.

" _You_ ," says Mr. Lewis in a disgusted hiss.


End file.
